


The Young Prince

by Anduriel



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Multi, Pain, Pedophilia, Self-Harm, more tags as the story develops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4648197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anduriel/pseuds/Anduriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains specific chapter warnings. Takes place right after Ozai ascends the throne. Zuko faces the new pressures and pains of life as the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation. He's expected to be perfect in everything: what he says, what he does, and of course the strength and skill of his firebending. He might have been able to handle the crushing stress of all these new expectations if only his mother were still there to support him. Without her, Zuko must learn to stand tall on his own, or break under the cruel, unrestrained fist of his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Black Dojo

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warnings: Physical abuse, Emotional abuse, Child abuse (Zuko is 11), Grief, Angst. 
> 
> There is no sexual abuse or molestation in this chapter, but the archive warning is there for future chapters. Shit's gonna get dark, folks. Appropriate warnings will proceed every chapter. Let me know if there's something specific you'd like tagged. 
> 
> My plan is to fill in the time between when Ozai becomes Fire Lord and his and Zuko's Agni Kai, tracking Zuko's mental evolution from kind-hearted child to troubled teen. Thanks for reading!
> 
> The author does not promote any form of real-life sexual abuse or coercion. Please, always get consent (read: children can't give consent).

“Again,” the Fire Lord’s voice droned from his perch.  
  
Small, thin gouts of fire plumed in Ozai’s private practice dojo. Sweat poured down Zuko’s face and back as he tried to go through the basic form once again. His heart was racing from both the exercise and his father’s scathing eyes on him, watching his every move, his every mistake.  
  
The dojo was equal parts menacing and beautiful. While most of the palace tended toward the lavish side, the dojo was the essence of minimalism. The only ‘decoration’ were three pairs of blades mounted on one wall. Otherwise the place was clean and open, the perfect space to work.  
  
What made it stand out, however, was that every part of its architecture was a deep, scorched black. The wood supports, tatami mats, and even the thick paper in the sliding doors were all specially treated for use as a firebending dojo. The process involved making the materials in the practice room flame resistant and also dying them black to hide any burns or singeing.  
  
Zuko had only seen the room from outside the door, he’d never actually been inside. He’d always thought it looked so cool, and had often pictured himself performing flying kicks and other fighting moves inside its walls. Now though it felt like those sable walls were starting to close in around him.  
  
He felt the mistake in his muscles before it actually happened, but couldn’t think fast enough to stop it. His feet landed in an awkward position as he stepped the wrong way, tying him up and making him unable to continue the form properly.  
  
“Again,” his father snapped. Ozai sat at the back of the dojo, watching from a raised cushion. He was dressed in sparring attire that matched Zuko’s: black trousers that ended just below his knees, a short red sash around his hips, but unlike Zuko he wore a loose robe over his shoulders.  
  
Zuko felt himself getting more and more discouraged. He knew he needed to focus, but he kept seeing images of Uncle Iroh and his drawn, empty face. Of Cousin Lu Ten who he would never see again. Of his mother…  
  
This time, he forgot about one arm and nearly burned his own foot off.  
  
“Again.”  
  
The young Prince tried to take a deep breath to clear his head, but he’d barely started the form again when he tripped over his own ankle, going down to a knee.  
  
He stayed there, hands in fists. Why couldn’t he _do_ this? What was wrong with him! He cringed when instead of the repeated command from his father, he heard the man stand from his cushion. “Stand up, Zuko.”  
  
The 11-year-old slowly stood, his head bowed. His father’s tone was deceptively calm. Someone who didn’t know him might mistake it as patient, but Zuko could hear the hint of anger under it. The malice. It was a tone he knew well.  
  
He glanced up to watch his father remove his robe, baring the sharp, lean muscles of his back. Ozai was heavily muscled without being bulky. He wasn’t nearly as brick-like as an earthbender; he didn’t need to be. His power and strength was unmistakable, and unmatchable.  
  
Ozai hung his robe on a hook and then opened a sleek drawer set into the wall of the dojo. He removed a stiff bamboo rod, testing its flexibility with both hands before swiping it through the air with a _whoosh_.  
  
Zuko’s heart sank, but he tried to keep a brave face. He had a feeling that he knew what was coming next, and he didn’t want to look like more of a coward than he already felt.  
  
Ozai turned back to him, dwarfing the boy. Contempt leaked from his gaze as he approached Zuko in the center of the floor. “Perhaps you need more encouragement,” he said, voice sizzling on the air.  
  
Zuko gulped, resisting the urge to shy away. He didn’t want to be here anymore. When his father had suggested that they have a private lesson, Zuko had nearly leapt with joy. Quality time with his father was something he’d hardly ever had, and the chance to train one-on-one gave him confidence. Azula often got private instruction with Father, but he’d never been good enough. He’d thought this meant that he’d finally started to show some promise as a firebender.  
  
What Zuko hadn’t known was that the session would be less instruction and more just another opportunity for him to embarrass himself in front of the Fire Lord. He’d barely received any instruction at all from his father in the half hour or so they’d been in the dojo, only put-downs and the same command over and over.  
  
The command Ozai now repeated. “Again.”  
  
Zuko let out a shaky breath as he positioned himself into the starting stance.  
  
He had barely moved before the cane smacked across his back, drawing a white line of pain over Zuko’s shoulders. He gasped and was just able to wrestle a grunt of pain into submission.  
  
“Your foot position is wrong. Again.”  
  
Zuko repositioned, brows knitting together in frustration. Something so basic! It was no wonder Father was so harsh with him. Still, his palms were sweaty and his heart stuttered with fear. Even though his father’s words had cut him before, Ozai had barely laid a hand on him. He could recall quick cuffs to the back of the head, and once he’d left a bruise on his arm where the man had gripped him too tightly. Nothing like—like this.  
  
He tried again, Ozai’s gaze boring into him. He actually made it almost halfway through the form before the cane struck him again, whipping across his lower back with a resounding _crack!_ Zuko couldn’t hold back a yelp.  
  
“You are a prince now, Zuko,” Ozai seethed. “Start acting like one. Again.”  
  
Zuko tried again, a lump forming in his throat. No, no! He couldn’t let his emotions overwhelm him. Not now. He had to be stoic, impassive, and cold like Father. Well, like Father was most of the time.  
  
It was no use. Zuko continued to mess up, and Ozai continued to correct him, his strikes growing harder with each mistake.  
  
_Crack!_ “Again.”  
  
_Crack!_ “ _Again._ ”  
  
_CRACK!_ “ _Again!_ ”  
  
Zuko gave a cry of pain and frustration as he collapsed to his hands and knees again. His back pulsed with pain, the strikes leaving stripes of angry welts. He could already feel them bruising. Zuko didn’t care about that though. The boy’s eyes were burning, tears pricking the corners. He was humiliated. This had been his moment to prove himself, and he’d failed miserably.  
  
Zuko didn’t expect the kick to his gut. His father’s bare foot felt like it was made of pure steel as it collided with his stomach. The boy dropped to his side, clutching his stomach as he tried and failed to keep in a whimper.  
  
“How are you such a disgrace?” Ozai spat, his words hurting worse than any physical punishment. He kicked him again, “Your mediocre existence shames me. You are an embarrassment!”  
  
Zuko could feel his father’s anger spiraling as yet another brutal kick landed. This was usually the point where his mother would step in, containing Ozai’s anger and directing it away from her son. But Ursa wasn’t there anymore. She would never be there again.  
  
A bone deep ache for his mother filled Zuko as the barrage of kicks continued. He coughed and yelped, groaning in pain, yearning for the gentle, protective presence of the one person who he knew truly loved him.  
  
Eventually the punishment stopped, Ozai still looming over his son as the boy drew in short, pained breaths. “Get up,” Ozai commanded disdainfully.  
  
Zuko struggled to his knees and then slowly stood, still doubled over. His stomach felt like tenderized meat.  
  
“Again.”  
  
The young Fire Prince moved into position, making sure his feet were perfect. His eyes and cheeks were wet, but he didn’t bother wiping the tears away, just took the first pose. The muscles of his stomach and back twitched and shivered, wanting to curl up and not move for a long time. He began the form, trying to ignore the pain, expecting at any moment to feel the cane crack over his sore back.  
  
He didn’t make one mistake.  
  
Zuko ended the form, nearly forgetting the last couple moves since it had been so long since he’d learned them. He managed it though, and bowed to Ozai, his body tight as he tried to ignore the pain coursing through his torso.  
  
Ozai sniffed and moved to return the cane to its drawer. “Congratulations, you’ve managed to achieve Azula’s level of competence from two years ago.”  
  
Zuko gulped, the momentary thrill of finishing the form crumbling to pieces as he realized just how inadequate he still was.  
  
“It seems you respond well to negative reinforcement,” his father continued. “I will have to dispose of your current teacher to find one more acceptable.”  
  
Zuko’s breath hitched and the childish ache for his mother doubled. Tashi, his current teacher, had been chosen by her. He’d been friendly with Ursa. The firebending master was one of Zuko’s only connections left to her. “But, Father, I—”  
  
Ozai had been about to put his robe back on, but turned back to Zuko instead, his dark golden eyes igniting.  
  
The words caught in Zuko’s throat as he met those burning eyes. He felt paralyzed, realizing just how much his mother had shielded him.  
  
Ozai turned fully toward his son, stalking toward him. “What, Prince Zuko? Spit it out.”  
  
“I-I—”  
  
“Do not stutter. Princes speak intelligently.”  
  
“I like my teacher, Father,” Zuko whispered, regretting the words even as he said them.  
  
Ozai grasped Zuko’s jaw, his fingers almost hot enough to burn as they dug into his skin. He craned the boy’s head up to look at him. “What makes you think I care about what you ‘like’?” he hissed. “I don’t care about what you ‘like’. I care about what you need, and you clearly need a firm hand.”  
  
“But Father—”  
  
“Did you not just finish this form, however basic?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you not understand that this lesson was effective?”  
  
“I do, but—”  
  
“Then what, Zuko? Are you just too much of a coward to—”  
  
“Mother liked my teacher!” Zuko finally cried out, tears pricking his eyes again.  
  
Ozai blinked, and then let his son’s chin drop. Zuko immediately looked down. Spirits, this was bad. He could feel emotions bubbling in his chest, could feel words working up his throat like vomit, and was powerless from stopping them spill out.  
  
“Tashi is a good teacher, and I always do better when he helps me. And Mother liked him. Mother chose him to teach me. And-and now that she… that she’s not…” Zuko’s bottom lip trembled. “Now that she’s not here anymore, we should respect her choices—”  
  
Zuko looked up to continue explaining, but before he could get another word out, the back of Ozai’s hand struck him across the face. It wasn’t just a firm smack; Zuko staggered to the side, the entire right side of his face exploding in pain, his teeth cutting into his lip. The tang of copper filled his mouth and a few drops of blood flew out onto the black tatami. Zuko realized in a moment of stunned clarity that burn marks weren’t the only things the black dye hid.  
  
He slowly looked up at his father, too shocked to cry, and cringed away when he saw how Ozai’s chest was heaving, sparks leaping from his bared teeth. The boy gulped when he tried to look away again and his eyes caught on Ozai’s fists, watching them clench and release, clench and release.  
  
“You will _never_ speak of her again,” Ozai nearly whispered, which was far more terrifying than if he’d shouted at Zuko.  
  
The boy didn’t notice his own trembling until he pressed his hands together and bowed to the Fire Lord. It was the only thing he could think to do as anything he might say was stuck in his chest.  
  
The tension in the room was suffocating as Ozai’s anger bubbled, just barely kept under the surface. Silence stretched on as Zuko stayed bowed at the waist, not daring to look up at his father.  
  
“You will report to the practice grounds tomorrow morning before sunrise to meet your new teacher. I will hear no more complaints about it. Is that clear, Zuko?” the Fire Lord finally commanded, voice dropping back to its deceptively calm tone.  
  
Zuko quickly nodded, still bowed. He didn’t want to make his father any angrier. He knew he was one misstep away from Ozai laying into him. His heart thudded painfully, causing all the bruises he’d acquired to pound in rhythm. He’d never felt so much violent energy directed exclusively toward him. Had his mother truly kept all this fury at bay for him?  
  
“Get out of my sight.”  
  
Zuko dipped down a little more to acknowledge the command, and then scurried out of the nightmarish dojo.  
  
He broke into a run as he headed for his bedroom, his tears already flowing and the pressure of his withheld sobs making his chest feel like it was about to burst. He prayed that he wouldn’t run into anyone in his dash to his room, especially Azula. He could hardly bear the thought of what she’d say if she saw him like this.  
  
It seemed that the Spirits wished to grant the boy the tiniest sliver of luck, since not a soul spotted the Prince in such a wounded and humiliated state. He made it to his room, slammed the door shut, and threw himself onto his bed, not caring when his bruised stomach and back screamed in protest of the movement.  
  
Zuko grasped a pillow, barely catching his sob as it spilled out of him. He shoved his face in the soft pillow, curling around it as his entire body cried.  
  
He missed his mother. He missed her so badly.  
  
She had always known when he was upset, and knew that, secretly, he didn’t like to be alone when he cried. He’d hide in his room and she would quietly follow him in soon after. Zuko could almost feel the mattress move from her body weight, her cool hand resting on his back. Sometimes just that was enough to still his cries. Sometimes it allowed him to cry even harder. Either way, he would uncurl just enough for her to slip into his little world, pull him into her arms, and cradle him like she’d done since he was a small child. She’d take out his ponytail and run her long fingers through his hair, not caring when his tears stained her lovely robes. He would get it all out, her quiet, strong presence constant and unwavering.  
  
Zuko’s sobs redoubled as a tiny piece of him still hoped that she would come. As if his cries could somehow call her from whatever unreachable place she’d gone to. The hope withered away to nothing as minutes slipped away and no one opened his door, no calm hand rested between his shoulder blades. The only thing there now were the lines of bruises from his father’s bamboo cane. When he finally decided that she really wasn’t coming, Azula’s words from the day grandfather Azulon died pounded back into him. Mother was gone. She was really gone.  
  
And it should have been him.  
  
He hadn’t cried for her yet. It had been a month without her, and yet he hadn’t cried. Everything had happened so fast: Azulan’s death, Ursa’s disappearance, the funeral, Ozai’s ascension to the throne, and the realization that he was now crown prince. His training had jumped from four days a week to six, and Tashi had started implementing more difficult moves and forms, his face suddenly drawn with stress. Zuko hadn’t had the time to process her disappearance.  
  
Now that things had started to settle, Zuko had no other option but to face the cold, lonely truth.  
  
He cried for hours. Every time he thought his sobs were close to subsiding, he would remember her touch, her smell, her soft voice and kind eyes, and it would start up all over again. He cried until he was completely spent and the sun was heading toward the horizon. He didn’t care if he missed dinner; he wasn’t at all hungry, and he’d never be able to clean himself up in time.  
  
Eventually, fatigue stilled Zuko’s wracking sobs and he simply laid on his bed, tears still leaking from his eyes as he stared out the window. The sun setting over the royal city was as golden and glorious as ever. Zuko saw all the shades he’d grown up with in that sunset, but that evening the picturesque scene felt empty. Its warmth could not penetrate the cold pit growing inside of Zuko.  
  
He flipped over, turning his back to the sun, and decided he hated sunsets.


	2. Lesson One—Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko has a dream that may contain a secret to gaining his father's approval. He then must meet his new firebending teacher, Sensei Masaru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Physical abuse, Emotional abuse, Child abuse, mild angst, mild pedophilia.
> 
> I'm so sorry this chapter took so friggen long. It was hard to get out for some reason. Hopefully the next ones will be a little quicker. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and/or commented! You all make me feel loved.

_Zuko gazed up at the statue of his mother. It was truly a masterpiece. Graceful, flowing lines curled around her form, her robes frozen in a gentle breeze. The statue looked so lifelike that it seemed any second Ursa would reach out and embrace him. And yet, no matter how adept the craftsman, the stone could not quite capture the warmth of Ursa’s real features._  
  
_He was standing in a stone cavern, the depths of which seemed to always be shifting and morphing. Blue, purple, and green hues played along the shifting walls as if there were light reflecting off of nearby water, yet Zuko could see no source. The place was eerie and dark, but Zuko knew it. He’d been here before. It wasn’t something that he remembered actively, but being in the place again reminded him of how many times he’d been there in the past._  
  
_Laid out before the statue of Ursa was a puzzle. A series of circular slots in a geometric pattern on the floor. Zuko glanced down at his feet and recognized a neat pile of stone disks. He frowned. The statue and the puzzle were so familiar; he knew he’d been in this place before, but it felt different now. It was colder, harder, the edges thrown into sharp shadows. The puzzle was familiar though, and that’s all that mattered._  
  
_He scooped up the disks and started fitting them into their slots. Each disk had its own symbol on it, symbols Zuko didn’t know the meaning of, but knew where they went in the pattern. In no time, he inserted the thirteenth one, pushing it into place before looking up expectantly at Ursa._  
  
_The statue didn’t respond. In fact, a piece of her hair crumbled onto the floor. Zuko’s heart clenched and he approached the statue. He leaned against his mother’s robes, pressing his cheek to her cold, hard belly. He knew he’d done it right. There was no other way for those pieces to go. What was wrong? Ursa was supposed to wake up, embrace him, that’s how it had always worked._  
  
_He looked up at the unmoving statue, worry thudding through his body. Now that he was up close, he could see that Ursa’s face looked drawn, pockmarks from weathering apparent in her otherwise perfect features._  
  
_Zuko reluctantly let go of the statue, a chill working through his body. Maybe he’d done something wrong after all. He turned around to look back at the puzzle, and only then did he see that there was another statue behind him, one he hadn’t even noticed in all the times he’d been in this place._  
  
_Ozai’s carved form stood across from Ursa. His father was positioned regally, his head held high, long hair and beard cut to sharp points in the stone. Zuko looked closely and could swear there were real flames in his stone eyes. While the stone couldn’t begin to grasp the life and warmth of Ursa, it was the perfect medium to portray the harsh, unforgiving visage of the Fire Lord._  
  
_Zuko gulped as he stared at the statue, his eyes flitting down to see another puzzle laid out in front of his father’s statue as well. It was the same style of puzzle, with the circular slots and the pile of stone disks, but it was an arrangement that Zuko could hardly grasp. He slowly approached the puzzle, gingerly picking up the new disks. He didn’t even know where to start. The pattern was completely different, and even the marks on the disks were different._  
  
_The prince glanced back up at the statue of his father, and then sighed; he had to try._  
  
_The disks clicked into place one by one, thirteen, just like Ursa’s puzzle. Zuko laid them carefully, trying to find any semblance of a pattern or clue, but there was nothing. Ozai’s form seemed to loom taller as he worked, setting the disks in their slots purely by guesswork._  
  
_He laid the last disk, snapping it into place, and no sooner did pain rip through his body in one giant, agonizing second. His teeth clacked together, his muscles seizing._  
The attack ended and Zuko collapsed onto the cold floor, panting, his eyes wide. What in Spirits was that?! He looked back up at the statue just in time to see blue sparks smolder around its base.  
  
_Electricity? It had shocked him?_  
  
_Zuko slowly moved to his hands and knees, his mind racing. He knew his father could command electricity, but why had it shocked him? He must have gotten the puzzle wrong. But there was no way to know how to do it right! This was completely unfair!_  
  
_The boy slowly started to collect the disks, wracking his brain to figure out how he could possibly do this. He cast a longing glance back at the crumbling statue of Ursa before he tried a new pattern._  
  
_Another wrong try and another shock brought a shriek from the boy as he fell to his knees. He slammed a fist against the floor, bruising his knuckles. He was so stupid! This puzzle couldn’t be that hard, he was just too much of an idiot to figure it out._  
  
_He sat down, rubbing angry tears from his eyes. He didn’t want to do the stupid puzzle anymore, but what other choice did he have? Mother was gone, and all that was left was his father._  
  
_Zuko stood on shaky legs, walking close to the statue of Ozai. It glared out into nothing, and Zuko felt a shudder of fear go through him. Fear and longing for something he couldn’t name._  
  
_He had to keep trying. Even if it killed him, he would show Father that he wasn’t a failure. That he could be the prince he was destined to be._  
  
_Zuko set his jaw and gathered the disks once again, setting to work. He clamped down on his screams when he inevitably got the puzzle wrong over and over again. He pushed through the pain, pulling it in, using it to spur him on. This was his father’s love, it had to be. Ozai didn’t hate him, he did this because he loved his son._  
  
_The prince lost track of how many times he attempted to complete the puzzle. It seemed like hours passed and it also felt like years passed. He felt older, tired, angry, but pushed on still._  
  
_Finally, on what was probably the millionth try, Zuko laid the thirteenth piece, tensing out of reflex now._  
  
_Nothing came. He blinked, almost disappointed. Had he tried too many times? Had he failed completely?_  
  
_A gasp slipped from his lips when the entire puzzle glowed a menacing red, lit from within. Zuko followed the light up the statue, the red hue seeping up from inside the statue, turning rock into flesh and fabric. The man’s eyes blazed, slowly looking upon his son and rooting Zuko to the spot. Ozai reached out a hand and caressed the left side of Zuko’s face._  
  
_“Your new teacher is pain, Zuko. And this is your first lesson.”_  


Zuko jerked awake and lurched into a sitting position. He got about halfway and immediately sank back down into his cushy bed, groaning in pain. His back was sore, but his stomach was worse. His abdominal muscles twitched and spasmed, every little movement reminding him of the bruises that covered his stomach.  
  
He laid as still as he could and rubbed at his itchy eyes. They felt puffy and were probably bright red. They were definitely crusty with salt and sleep. Zuko took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain in his gut. The sun was already peaking over the horizon, which meant he needed to get to the training grounds.  
  
The boy scowled. He didn’t _want_ a new teacher. He didn’t _want_ to meet this new guy. He _wanted_ Tashi. He _wanted_ …  
  
Zuko squeezed his eyes shut as emotions welled up in his chest. It didn’t matter what he wanted anymore.  
  
He slowly rolled out of bed, holding his stomach. Zuko hadn’t changed out of his training clothes, and decided he’d just wear them again, but considered adding a shirt. It wouldn’t exactly be traditional. Firebenders wore a minimum amount of clothes during training to avoid their sleeves catching fire. But looking down, he saw dark little blotches spattering his stomach. He didn’t want this new teacher to see his bruises. He didn’t want anyone to see. He decided to throw on a loose cotton undershirt, tying it at his waist before slipping into his sandals and heading toward the practice field.  
  
On the way there he redid his ponytail, making sure his hair was smooth and neat. If he was going he might as well make a good impression. As Zuko made his way through the halls of the palace, he tried to remember the dream he’d had.  
  
He could just barely recall what had happened, the details fuzzy and quickly trickling away. Something about puzzles? And his mother had been there, sort of. And his father had definitely been there. His stomach clenched and he grimaced.  
  
The morning air still held a chill as Zuko stepped out of the palace and walked down the stone path to the training grounds. The grounds were a wide open area of packed dirt. Bordering the area were hulking, obsidian obelisks, at least two men tall and three wide. It made the practice grounds seem strangely detached from the rest of the palace grounds, guarded by those shiny black giants.  
  
Zuko walked through the largest gap between two obelisks, bowing before he stepped from lush grass to dirt. He spotted someone across from him. A man, who was…  
  
Packing up his things? The man was stooped over, his back turned, and Zuko saw that he’d just finished wrapping up a couple wooden swords.  
  
“Um, excuse me? Are you the new teacher?” Zuko asked, his voice reedy in the wide open space.  
  
The man stiffened, and then turned toward Zuko. He wasn’t tall, but standing in a bar of sunlight cast between two of the obelisks, he cast a long shadow. In fact, he resembled the standing shards of volcanic glass. His body was hard and sharp, his muscles roping over his arms and chest in ugly, bulging cords.  
  
And he was glaring. His face seemed to be made of chipped stone, deep frown lines etched into his brow. His eyes were the darkest amber Zuko’d ever seen, nearly black but for flecks of honey-gold. “I assumed you weren’t coming,” he stated.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect the crown prince to be late.”  
  
Zuko frowned at the man, glanced at the morning sun not even fully over the horizon yet, and then back at the new teacher. “Father said sunrise,” he said dryly.  
  
“The Fire Lord informed me you would be here before sunrise.” He began to unpack his things again, every movement precise and measured.  
  
Zuko ground his teeth, widening his stance stubbornly. This man was not his father, and was certainly not Tashi; he didn’t have to put up with his crap. “Close enough! What difference does it make anyway?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his frown turning into a pout. Tashi never split hairs over the time Zuko was supposed to arrive.  
  
The man straightened, taking a deep breath through his nose and out his mouth. He then approached Zuko, his pace slow, steady. Zuko glared back at him. He didn’t notice the way the man’s hand closed into a fist, or how he approached with an intention in his dark eyes.  
  
Didn’t notice it until that fist slammed into his head. Stars burst in front of Zuko’s eyes as he staggered to his side, holding his temple.  
  
“What was that for!?”  
  
“It’s called discipline, boy.”  
  
“You hit me!”  
  
“You will be here before sunrise every day.”  
  
“You _hit_ me!”  
  
The man drew his fist back again and Zuko skittered away.  
  
“The Fire Lord instructed me to whip you into an honorable prince,” the older man said, his voice strangely soft. He didn’t seem angry at all, just… cold. “I intend to do so. You will refer to me as Sensei Masaru from this day on. Now start running.”  
  
“Running?” Zuko was still rubbing his head, his thoughts scattered.  
  
“Laps. Don’t you know how to do laps, boy?”  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Zuko hissed through gritted teeth.  
  
“I’ll stop calling you ‘boy’ when you stop acting like one. Now get running!”  
  
Zuko made an exasperated sound and turned away from Masaru, leaning into a jog around the perimeter of the practice grounds. His feet dug into the dirt, his steps heavy with frustration. This guy was insane! How was he expected to learn anything from him?  
  
His frustration fizzled as he completed two laps, his heart and lungs starting to work harder. He continued to glance at Masaru, watching him rustle around in his bag, and then walk over to lean against one of the obelisks. He held something long, thin, and black in one hand.  
  
As the prince rounded the perimeter and approached Masaru, he squinting at whatever it was he was holding. He quickly recognized that it was a long leather crop, suitable for spurring on cattle. Masaru straightened from the obelisk, the crop tightening in his grasp as Zuko passed him, and the boy skittered away, hearing the crop whistle through the air right behind him.  
  
“Are you serious!” the boy squeaked, nervous sweat breaking out over his already damp brow.  
  
Masaru leaned back against the obelisk, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Zuko like a hawk. “I didn’t say jog, boy! I said run!” he called back.  
  
Zuko shook his head in disbelief, but picked up the pace. What was he, some sort of ostrich horse? Did this man really plan to use that crop on him? How many laps did he plan to make him do, anyway?  
  
He kept running… and running… and running. He stopped counting after lap twenty. Every time he started to slow down, Masaru would raise his arm, his fist tightening on the crop as Zuko would approach. Zuko didn’t want to know how that thing felt, and so kept up the faster pace.  
  
The sun was a third of the way across the sky by the time Zuko’s vision started to tunnel. His lungs had gone past the point of burning and just felt like they were filled with lead. The world darkened, and for a second he thought that the sun had gone behind a cloud…  
  
And then he was waking up with his face pressed against the dirt.  
  
It felt like scorpion bees had dug into his ears and lungs, and drool painted the dirt under him from his slack mouth. He couldn’t hear his sluggish, rasping breath, just felt it tearing up his throat.  
  
Masaru yanked him up to his knees by his shirt, his voice coming in muffled. Zuko felt himself dry heave, bile adding to agony of his throat, and was suddenly very glad he’d skipped dinner the night before.  
  
Masaru’s voice became clear in a rush, “—the work of a man, a prince. This is the only way you’ll learn.”  
  
The hands left his shirt and Zuko almost collapsed again, catching himself on his palms. He stared at the dirt as it drifted in and out of focus, swallowing thickly. Spirits, he couldn’t do this. He would die if he continued like this.  
  
“Get up, boy.”  
  
Zuko bit his lip to stifle a whimper. No, he couldn’t show weakness in front of this man. He had to prove himself! He slowly stood, feeling Masaru’s eyes on him, hotter than the sun. He stumbled forward as his legs nearly gave out, the muscles thrumming their pain through his entire body.  
  
“To the center.”  
  
The command grated on Zuko’s nerves, his trembling hands turning into fists as he stumbled to the center of the grounds.  
  
“Assume the basic firebending starting stance.”  
  
Zuko tried to gulp around the feeling of sand in his throat. He took the wide stance, not looking at Masaru, not saying anything.  
  
“Lower.”  
  
The boy squatted, his arms positioned tight to his sides, fists up.  
  
The crop snapped down over one of his thighs. Zuko’s shriek was quickly eaten up by a coughing fit, his ragged throat unable to do anything else.  
  
“ _Lower._ ”  
  
Zuko bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his eyes watering as he squatted until his legs were parallel with the ground.  
  
The older man took a step back, his eyes never leaving the sweating, trembling boy. “You will not move from that position until I say to.”  
  
Zuko’s vision swam as the sun crept along its path, beating down on the young firebender. He couldn’t complain; he didn’t have the breath to complain.  
  
Zuko eyed the crop still grasped in the sensei’s hand, emotions battling in him. He wanted to stop, but he also wanted to show this asshole that he wouldn’t be defeated. He was so tired though, and sore, and so _fucking_ thirsty. He wanted…  
  
He wanted to give up.  
  
The dream came flooding back to Zuko as he squatted, his legs turning into the fire he was supposed to have at his command.  
  
_Your new teacher is pain, Zuko. And this is your first lesson._  
  
The shocks coursing through his body again and again. Endless torture because of his own inadequacy. But it had been worth it. The way his father had caressed him after he’d done that stupid puzzle so many times, finally finding the right pattern and unlocking Father’s affection.  
  
He couldn’t give up. He would take the pain, use it, pull it inside of him. He would earn Father’s approval, and he would show this horrid excuse for a firebending teacher that he wasn’t some kid he could just pick on. He had to keep going.  
  
Masaru kept him there for over an hour. Zuko’s legs gave out three times, earning him a lash across his already sore back for each fall. He got back up though. Every time.  
  
“Stand,” Masaru finally ordered.  
  
Zuko almost couldn’t move, his legs were so cramped. He straightened, groaning and rubbing his thighs.  
  
The crop cracked across his back again. He yelped and shot a glare up at Masaru. “Why?!”  
  
“You will show no pain during your training. A prince does not show pain.”  
  
“How do you know what a prince should be?” Zuko demanded, determined not to back down.  
  
The man raised the crop again and Zuko stumbled away, his resolve crumbling like bread in water. He wanted to be strong, defiant… but he wasn’t used to the pain yet. He hadn’t had years like he’d had in his dream.  
  
And Masaru scared him. He couldn’t hide that as the man followed after him, his harsh features twisting. “A prince does not show fear.”  
  
The boy continued to retreat, terrified by the look on his face and the coldness of his words.  
  
“A prince does not show mercy.”  
  
Zuko’s back hit one of the obsidian obelisks and he plastered himself against it. Masaru grasped the front of Zuko’s shirt and tore it open, bearing the bruises that speckled his stomach. Zuko immediately tried to wrap his arms over them, his already flushed face heating in humiliation. Masaru grabbed his wrists, the crop still grasped in one hand, and pinned Zuko’s arms against the stone above his head.  
  
“S-stop!”  
  
“A prince does not hide his stripes.”  
  
Masaru leaned in close to Zuko’s face, catching the boy’s golden-amber eyes in his dark ones. Something in those eyes made Zuko’s stomach turn, a shiver running through his overworked flesh. He didn’t know what it was. He’d seen anger, fury, despair, but this… he had no clue. All he knew was that he didn’t like it.  
  
“A prince does not complain. He does not question. He does his duty, and he does it perfectly,” Masaru hissed. His breath smelled like sweat and old ale, warm even on Zuko’s ruddy skin. The prince didn’t respond, frozen in agonizing terror at the way this man looked at him. He hated it, and hated himself for being so afraid.  
  
There was silence filled only by Zuko’s labored breathing as Masaru looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his hips and stomach, then his throat, and then back to meet his eyes. “Is that understood, boy?” he asked quietly.  
  
Frustration filled Zuko, fear and anger battling in his chest. He wanted to run away and he also wanted to punch the man. “I-I—”  
  
In an instant, Masaru dropped Zuko’s wrists and punched him in the head again. The boy fell to the dirt at his feet, too exhausted to even groan.  
  
“I said, is that understood?” he asked coldly.  
  
Zuko took a shaking breath before he croaked a defeated, “Yes, Sensei Masaru.”  
  
Masaru sniffed and then walked away. “That will be all for today. I expect you to be on time tomorrow.”  
  
Zuko struggled to stand, his head spinning and a migraine tickling the backs of his eyes. “Sensei, I don’t train tomorrow,” he said, rubbing at his throbbing temple.  
  
Masaru paused and then turned back around. Zuko remembered just in time to put his hand at his side. He didn’t want another lash now that it seemed his own personal torture session was over.  
  
“What makes you think that?” Masaru asked. This time, Zuko didn’t miss how the crop was still grasped tightly in his hand.  
  
He gulped, trying to hide his obvious fear. “I always have the first day of the week off. It’s a recovery day.” As he said it, his heart was already sinking.  
  
Masaru snorted, confirming Zuko’s fears as he turned away again to pack up his things. “Princes don’t get recovery days.”  
  
Of all the things he’d gone through during the last few hours, hearing that his one day off was gone was what made a lump form in his torn throat and his eyes sting with tears. He quickly looked away, his hands fisting so hard his nails bit into his palms. _Don’t cry. Don’t cry, you idiot._  
  
Desperately needing a distraction, Zuko busied himself with carefully removing his torn shirt. Masaru quickly packed up and left the practice grounds without another word, bowing to the ring as he left.  
  
The boy waited, listening to the man’s fading footsteps before he finally let himself relax.  
  
He realized quickly that relaxing was a mistake. As his muscles released, all the pain from the morning flooded through him, stemming from the most powerful headache he’d ever had. Zuko slid down the side of the obelisk, collapsing onto the dirt and curling into a ball. It felt like his blood had turned to poison and that his brain was trying to escape from his skull.  
  
He knew he had to get up. If he got up, he could get some water. He could draw himself a cool bath and soak in it for the rest of his life. Maybe he could even get one of the servants to run it for him. But no, that would be too embarrassing. He’d do it himself. If he ever stood from the training grounds again, that is.  
  
Through the painful haze, Zuko thought back to the dream once again.  
  
If this was lesson one, he didn’t know how he’d be able to survive until lesson two.


	3. A Student's Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko sees a little more of Sensei Masaru's darker nature, and then learns just who's side Ozai is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Child abuse, Physical/Emotional/Sexual Abuse, Pedophilia, mild angst. 
> 
> Wading farther into the muck without an end in sight. Thanks again for the comments and kudos! Glad everyone likes reading the Zuzu pain as much as I like writing it heh

Bathed and watered, Zuko made his way down to the dining room for dinner. He held himself gingerly. Every nerve in his body felt exposed. It seemed as if his muscles would dissolve if he put too much weight on them.  
  
Skipping dinner had unintentionally been the best idea Zuko had had the night before. But skipping too many meals would end up hurting him. He needed the energy if he was going to survive the next morning.  
  
He grimaced as he walked past the dark halls with their rose-red banners and tapestries. He never, ever wanted to go back to that training field. He never wanted to see that awful man again. He…  
  
The Prince sighed heavily. There he went, wanting things again.  
  
He entered the smaller family dining room just as tea was being poured. Ozai and Azula were already there, Ozai sitting at the head of the table, of course. Azula had taken her place at Ozai’s left, and Zuko was about to sit next to her, but before he could pull out his chair Ozai stopped him. “Sit to my right, Zuko.”  
  
Zuko stared at his father, but Ozai didn’t look up from his tea. Zuko’s heart sank a little. That had been Mother’s seat. He knew better than to argue though as he moved around to the Fire Lord’s right side. He didn’t want to give Father a reason to get angry with him again. Especially in front of Azula.  
  
He carefully sat down, easing his sore muscles into the mahogany chair. He picked up his teacup, not trying to warm it with firebending. Last time he’d tried that he’d exploded the delicate china cup.  
  
Zuko sipped the mild tea, frowning in thought as he ignored the now familiar silence of the dinner table. He really was so inadequate next to his family. Both Ozai and Azula kept their tea hot without even thinking about it. He couldn’t even do that right. It was such a small thing, it really shouldn’t be any trouble for him. Especially with how puny his actual flames were. His father had said as much when Zuko’d broken the cup.  
  
Zuko risked a glance in his father’s direction, and then quickly looked back into his tea. Maybe Father was right; maybe he did deserve a teacher like Sensei Masaru. Zuko chided himself, revising his thoughts quickly. He didn’t doubt his father’s decision, he would never be so foolish as to think he knew better than the Fire Lord. But, somehow he’d felt like he didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly.  
  
Watching Ozai and Azula heat their tea with the ease of fixing a stray hair, however, made him second guess himself.  
  
Dinner was served, and as if it were his cue, Ozai asked with the same false casualty, “How did your first training session go, Prince Zuko?”  
  
The Prince’s fingers stumbled over his chopsticks. He’d taken notice of how his father had started calling him by his new title more frequently, enunciating the word as if he enjoyed saying it. “It… um…”  
  
Azula snorted as she popped a water chestnut into her mouth.  
  
Zuko frowned at her and then sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. “It was challenging, Father,” he said honestly.  
  
“Hm,” Ozai replied, slowly tapping the ends of his chopsticks on the edge of his plate. “And your teacher? Sensei Masaru?”  
  
His tone had taken an edge. Zuko knew he must be searching for weakness, waiting for his son’s inevitable whimpering to start up. “What about him, Father?” he asked instead, pushing a piece of perfectly grilled meat around on his plate.  
  
“What are your thoughts on him?”  
  
Zuko withheld a cringe at the annoyed tone. “He is… an honorable man,” he decided, though saying it left a sour note on his tongue. He didn’t think that whip was honorable. He didn’t think that look in his eyes, whatever it was, had been honorable either.  
  
Ozai’s chopsticks stopped their tapping, and Zuko glanced at him again. The boy’s heart swelled when he saw his father’s shoulders ease slightly under his robes, and his sharp eyes lose some of their heat. “I’m glad you’ve started to see reason,” he replied before turning his attention to Azula and discussing her much more advanced training.  
  
Their conversation faded as Zuko’s heart thudded against his ribs. He looked down to his food and finally took a bite. As soon as the marinated vegetables hit his tongue, he realized how absolutely starved he was. He dug in, understanding now that he had been wrong. It didn’t matter what he thought was honorable, or what he thought he deserved. The Fire Lord knew what was honorable and what was not. Zuko had no place to doubt his judgement.  
  
But more than that, his answer had pleased Father, and that’s all that really mattered to him. 

***

A week later, Zuko’s body had started to grow accustomed to being in constant pain. He had a permanent pattern of welts across his back and chest, and his muscles ached and his joints creaked, but it was starting to become background noise. Even though his body was getting used to the trials Masaru was putting him through, his mind was anything but acclimated.  
  
Sensei’s fist smashed into the side of his head yet again, raising a bump on top of the one already there. “Idiot. When you place your foot the movement should be hard, abrupt,” Masaru grunted.  
  
Zuko gritted his teeth, repeating the move by stomping his foot to the ground in frustration, which earned him a lash across the back from the crop. He cringed but didn’t dare make a sound. To show pain was to show weakness… or something. In reality, Zuko just didn’t want another day like that first day. The man certainly hadn’t gone easy on him since then, but he hadn’t made him run until he passed out again either.  
  
“What are you, an earthbender?” Masaru barked. “Don’t stomp like a hippo cow, strike with your heal.”  
  
Zuko watched contemptuously as Masaru demonstrated the move, his movements harsh and yet somehow graceful. Dirt sprayed from where his heal dug into the ground, the ropy muscles of his torso flexing as his entire body performed the move.  
  
Masaru looked to him again, and Zuko got back into position, squatting and trying to mimic Sensei’s movements. He couldn’t get his body to work with his divided mind, though. He knew that if he just followed Sensei’s orders to the letter he could avoid a lot of pain. At the same time, the man’s attitude and insults gave Zuko a nearly instinctual need to defy him.  
  
The crop whacked against his inner thigh and Zuko couldn’t stop a short yelp. He shot a glare at Masaru. “Why should I even listen to you?” he demanded. “I’ve never even seen you firebend.”  
  
Masaru’s whole demeanor changed in an instant, and Zuko suddenly felt a lot smaller. He tried to keep his feelings from his expression, remembering that first day and the words Masaru had said when he’d pinned him against the obelisk. The man took a step closer, “You doubt my abilities, boy?”  
  
Zuko tried to square himself off against Masaru, but he was already starting to quake as that dark gaze stared more intensely than the sun. “I’m just saying I’ve never seen it,” he muttered.  
  
The man stared at him for a moment longer, making Zuko want to fidget and look anywhere else.  
  
Masaru moved quicker than Zuko ever thought possible and sent a gout of flame hurtled straight at his face. Zuko barely dodged out of the way, falling hard in the process. He felt a few of his hairs singe as the flame grazed his cheek, close and powerful and _hot_. Of course fire was hot, but it was different when that heat was up close and personal.  
  
His breath came out in quick, panicked bursts as he stared up at Masaru from the ground. “You—you could have killed me!”  
  
He barely got the words out before Masaru was dragging him back up by his arm, leaving finger-shaped bruises, and then landed a punch to his diaphragm. The boy doubled over, the breath completely knocked out of him.  
  
“Don’t ever question my authority again, _boy_ ,” he growled.  
  
Zuko couldn’t even reply, just held his bare stomach as he tried to draw in a breath.  
  
“Aww, did that hurt?” Masaru mocked.  
  
Zuko started to growl a wordless reply, but was cut short by Sensei’s rough hand sliding over his stomach. The touch, for once, wasn’t punishing. It was… caring? No, that wasn’t right. There was still a hint of violence in the way his fingers pressed into Zuko’s small, boyish muscles.  
  
Masaru was close. Really close. The man’s bare chest was rubbing on Zuko’s arm and shoulder as his fingers found the divots of barely formed abdominal muscles. Only with him this close did Zuko smell something he hadn’t noticed before. Something that hadn’t been present during any of their other training sessions. A faint, bitter odor seamed to coat Masaru’s skin. As Zuko’s breath finally came back to him, he realized he could smell it even stronger from Sensei’s mouth.  
  
It wasn’t just bad breath, it was distinctive and repulsive. He didn’t know what the smell was, but he didn’t like it. Especially when Masaru was acting so weird. Zuko found himself cringing away from the man’s touch as it ventured to his hips and sensitive lower stomach.  
  
Masaru’s hand darted from Zuko’s arm to hold onto the back of the boy’s neck, his other hand still roaming over Zuko’s stomach. “Get back into position,” he ordered quietly.  
  
Zuko tried to hide his fear, but his heart was beating so hard it felt like it would jump out of his throat at any second. He squatted, spreading his legs and placing his fists at his hips. The hold on the back of his neck seemed to pour tension into his shoulders and back, making his form rigid and uncomfortable.  
  
Masaru’s touch on his stomach went feather-light for a moment, and then drifted to Zuko’s inner thigh, gripping the large muscle there.  
  
Zuko hissed in pain as Masaru grabbed the same spot he’d struck with the crop, and the tension gathering in his shoulders jolted through his whole body. What… what was happening? Why was Masaru doing this? This wasn’t like his usual methods at all.  
  
“Lower,” he growled in Zuko’s ear.  
  
The boy gulped and squatted farther down, but stopped when the hand at his thigh only wandered higher as he moved.  
  
“S-Sensei—”  
  
“I said lower.”  
  
“But—”  
  
The hand tightened on his neck, stubby nails digging into Zuko’s skin. Zuko cringed and slowly lowered himself so his thighs were parallel with the ground. He’d been wrong. Masaru was still punishing him, but in a completely different way. It was terrifying. More so because Zuko couldn’t begin to understand what was going on.  
  
“Now do the move again,” Masaru murmured, his hot, smelly breath puffing into Zuko’s ear. The boy tried to take a steadying breath. Masaru’s hand hadn’t moved any farther. Maybe he could keep it that way. He kept the mental picture of Sensei performing the move at the forefront of his thoughts as he took a breath in, and then struck forward with his heal.  
  
Dirt sprayed up from his heal, a perfect mirror of what Masaru had done.  
  
“Better,” the man grunted, but he didn’t move away from Zuko. Instead, the hand at Zuko’s neck unclenched and drifted down along his spine, pressing over the welts from his crop. Shivers that Zuko didn’t understand washed over him. He wasn’t at all cold, why was he shivering?  
  
Then Sensei’s other hand moved the last few inches up his thigh and pressed up between Zuko’s legs.  
  
The boy gasped and shoved the man away with a plume of fire he didn’t even try to summon. He stumbled away from Masaru, eyes wide, expression horribly confused. He stared as Masaru brushed off a couple of clinging sparks, his moves slow and easy.  
  
Zuko was near to panicking. Why had Masaru touched him there? And… and why had his body reacted to the touch? Heat had pooled in his lower stomach and flushed his neck and ears. He felt like his entire body was pulsing. And none of it made any sense.  
  
The one thing he knew for sure was that it had been wrong. He stayed in his defensive stance as Masaru just grinned, rolling his corded shoulders back and sighing. “Interesting,” he murmured, and then, “I think that’s all for today.”  
  
Zuko still couldn’t relax even as Sensei quickly packed his things and once again left the area without another word.  
  
The Prince stared after him, his thoughts clearing a little now that Masaru wasn’t there to cloud them. What had happened… that hadn’t been discipline. Whether Masaru was a good teacher or not, he shouldn’t do those things. Zuko was sure of it.  
  
But then the question was, what was he going to do about it?  
  
Zuko carefully brushed himself off and slowly made his way back toward his room, staring up at the Fire Nation Palace. He had to tell someone about what Masaru had done, or tried to do, or whatever. And the only person Zuko could think to tell was his father. 

***

At dinner that evening, Zuko asked to have a private talk with his father, and to his surprise, Ozai had granted it.  
  
“Enter,” Ozai rumbled from behind the door of his chambers.  
  
Zuko gulped down the lump of apprehension in his throat and slid the paper door open. Father was harsh, and ruthless, but he had to care about something like this. Right?  
  
Zuko entered and carefully slid the door closed behind him. Ozai sat at a dark mahogany and ebony inlay desk, parchment stacked neatly next to him, an ink brush in hand. He had on his most casual robes, which were only a single outer layer over his underclothes. The robe was, of course, a saturated red, coupled with a black sash.  
  
Zuko had been in his parents’ quarters (well, just his father’s now) a couple times, and didn’t pay much attention to the gigantic room. He did notice that all of the drapes were now closed, and the room seemed stuffier than he remembered.  
  
Zuko bowed to the Fire Lord, “Thank you for seeing me, Father.”  
  
Ozai didn’t look up from his work. “Do not waste my time, Prince Zuko,” he muttered.  
  
Even though it was offhand, Zuko felt the sting of the words all the way to his core. Father’s time was precious, he needed to hurry up and get to the point of his visit. “Father, I’d like to talk to you about Sensei Masaru.”  
  
That got Ozai’s attention. The brush stopped moving, and even though Ozai’s eyes didn’t move from his paper, it was obvious he wasn’t looking at it anymore.  
  
Zuko rushed to explain, already feeling the temperature raise a few degrees in the massive bedroom. “Today, Masaru did something… to me… that I don’t think he should have done,” he started. His neck and ears flushed, drawing a frown to his lips. Why was this so embarrassing all of a sudden? “He touched me,” he mumbled.  
  
The brush snapped onto the wooden desk and Ozai stood, shaking his head. “I knew it. I knew you were too much of a weakling to learn true respect.”  
  
Zuko’s eyes widened at the words. Weakling? Was he weak for complaining about something that was so obviously wrong?  
  
Zuko didn’t have time to ponder the question as Ozai forcefully stood from his desk and crossed the room, bearing down on his son. “Have you already forgotten the lesson I taught you?” Ozai seethed.  
  
The boy cowered back against the door as his father towered over him, seeming even taller in the low light of the bedroom. “I haven’t, Father, honest,” he got out, working not to stutter. “It’s not the pain, it’s… he…”  
  
Ozai grabbed the front of Zuko’s shirt, pulling him up closer to his face. “It’s what?” he hissed. “Speak clearly or do not speak at all.”  
  
“He touched where I don’t think he should touch,” Zuko tried to explain, voice trembling. He didn’t know why it was so hard to say aloud.  
  
“Where, here?” Ozai said mockingly before he unceremoniously grabbed between Zuko’s legs.  
  
Zuko went completely rigid, sucking in a sharp breath and meeting his father’s eyes, the fear and confusion plain in his. He didn’t see the strange, almost longing expression that had been in Masaru’s eyes before. All he saw was anger. Bubbling, festering, white hot rage.  
  
“Why did he touch you?”  
  
Zuko felt rooted to the spot, locked in Ozai’s gaze. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything.  
  
Ozai’s pearl-white teeth bared and he shoved Zuko against the door. “Do not make me repeat myself.”  
  
“I-I—”  
  
The man’s hand pressed harder against that most private spot, his fingers contracting like a vice. Zuko’s eyes widened further until he squeezed them shut, tucking his chin to his chest defensively.  
  
“Did you deserve it?” Ozai murmured.  
  
“I don’t know,” Zuko whispered, voice shaking, his breath coming out in scared gasps.  
  
“Do you respect Sensei Masaru?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Do you respect me?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“Then why do you question the teaching methods of the sensei I personally chose for you?”  
  
His hand squeezed harder and Zuko bit his lip to hold back a whimper. “I’m sorry, Father.”  
  
“You will be,” Ozai growled, but then let his hand fell away, leaving behind a dull, throbbing pain.  
  
Zuko blinked his eyes open to cautiously meet his father’s gaze again, afraid and confused. Ozai gazed scornfully down at him. “I don’t have time to properly punish you for your disrespect tonight. But trust that I will find something suitable.”  
  
Zuko felt his knees and hands tremble as fear nearly ate him alive. He wanted to defend himself, but the words weren’t there, and the resolve would never be there. Not after that display. Zuko had thought that he’d never wanted what had happened in his father’s private dojo to ever happen again, but he would take that beating a million times over than face this treatment again.  
  
Ozai turned away, strolling back toward his desk. “Don’t forget that your lessons start tomorrow. Report to the western drawing room after your training.”  
  
Zuko didn’t trust his voice, and so simply bowed at the waist.  
  
“And Zuko…”  
  
The boy slowly glanced up from his bowed position, nervously meeting Ozai’s eyes as the man glanced back over his shoulder at him.  
  
“Do not disappoint me again.”


	4. Lesson Two: Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko contemplates his body after his father's and Masaru's treatment. He then gets some unexpected 'help' from Azula, unlocking new, dark possibilities. Finally, he discovers Ozai's decided punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Child abuse, Emotional abuse, Angst, Self-harm referenced. 
> 
> So this chapter would have been out a week ago, but I got an opportunity for a freelance writing gig, and so had to write up a sample (AHHHHHHHH). Sorry that this chapter is a little on the shorter side. Anyways, hope you guys like it! Thanks for being patient!

He’d never really experimented with his body before.  
  
Zuko lay on his bed, having literally run from his father’s chambers and back to his room. He stared up at the dark wooden ceiling, and then around at his bedroom. He focused on the details of his room to try and calm his thundering heart.  
  
It was spacious; nothing like his father’s quarters, but still large. He liked the space. When he’d gotten his own bedroom, Ursa had let him pick out the decorations and the bedding. He’d chosen a blue dragon theme, one that he now felt was maybe a little childish, but deep down he really liked it. Blue dragons lined the edges of his bedspread and danced over the curtains. Bronze dragons made the handles on the various drawers, and a tapestry on the far wall depicted a dragon twisting over a beach.  
  
He stared at that tapestry. It had always reminded him of Ember Island. They hadn’t been there in a couple years, but he missed it. He even missed that stupid play Mother would always force them to see every year.  
  
He didn’t want to go back though. Not without her. It wouldn’t be the same.  
  
Zuko felt his breath hitch in his throat and quickly shoved the memories of his mother away. No, he couldn’t be weak.  
  
His thoughts turned back to his body. He swiftly undressed in his bed, slipping his trousers off without even getting up, his undergarments going with. The red robe and undershirt quickly followed, leaving him lying naked on top of the covers.  
  
Darkness covered his bare form, but his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see clearly with the moonlight drifting into the bedroom. Everything that had happened during the day had awoken a troubling need to understand his physical body. Maybe if he could figure that out, he could understand what had happened. Could somehow prepare himself for if it happened again. Just the thought nearly made him physically sick, but if Father thought it was best then he had no other choice.  
  
Zuko stared down at himself, at what rested between his legs. It looked… weird.  
  
He understood that it took something from a man and a woman to create a child, and that it had something to do with _those_ parts, but the logistics of that process confounded him. Especially looking down at his own equipment. What could a woman possibly have that would somehow compliment that thing?  
  
He’d asked about it before. Before he really knew what he was asking. He still didn’t really understand. His mother had given him some poetic response that he didn’t remember completely. Something about arms and hearts opening. He remembered she’d looked troubled about the question, and so he hadn’t asked again.  
  
Zuko poked at himself and winced when it hurt, still sore. How was it so sensitive? It didn’t seem fair. He rolled onto his side, staring at the tapestry again, the blue threads lit by the moon. That part of him only seemed to exist to make him hurt worse. Maybe he just shouldn’t bother with it at all. 

***

In the days that followed, weak streams of fire started to waft from the practice grounds.  
  
“What is it going to take to get you to create some real fire?” Masaru growled almost to himself. He tapped the end of the whip idly on his thigh in thought.  
  
Zuko was panting in the center of the ring, sweat pouring down his face and back. Raised strips of flesh lined his back as usual, some bleeding from a couple particularly hard strikes. His expression was screwed up in frustration. He wanted to be angry at Masaru, but all he could muster was a thin veneer of defiance coating a huge ball of fear.  
  
It infuriated him that he couldn’t defeat that fear. Yet even that anger at himself wasn’t enough to truly encompass the raw terror he felt whenever Masaru came close to him.  
  
“I have a suggestion,” an unmistakable female voice piped from the grounds entrance.  
  
Azula strutted onto the practice grounds. For her age, she already seemed to have the confidence it would take to run a country. A nearly permanent smirk graced her lips, and she moved with conviction and purpose.  
  
Zuko scowled at his sister. They’d never really gotten along, but even so, the last few months they’d been particularly distant. It seemed that whenever they did get a chance to interact, Azula had been purely hostile to him. “What are _you_ doing here?” he demanded.  
  
The girl walked right into the practice grounds, and Sensei Masaru had the grace to bow to her. “Princess Azula. It is an honor.”  
  
Zuko ground his teeth together, temper bubbling. Oh, so Azula got all the respect of an heir but he was treated like a child? Unbelievable.  
  
“You just have to push the right buttons. Isn’t that right, Zuzu?” Azula cooed, cocking her head at her brother.  
  
The boy gave a frustrated noise, “You’re not helping. And don’t call me that.”  
  
Azula giggled, “Oh Zuzu, you know you like it.”  
  
“Cut it out, Azula!” He was hot. He was frustrated. And now Azula was going to embarrass him. He hated being embarrassed. Why did she always have to pick the worst times?  
  
The girl raised an eyebrow. “Now what would Mother say if she heard you talking like that?” she purred.  
  
A shard of ice stabbed through his heart, and Zuko tried desperately to hide that feeling by taking a step toward Azula and snarling, “Don’t talk about her!”  
  
“Why shouldn’t I?” Azula sneered. “She was my mother was much as yours.”  
  
“I said stop it!”  
  
“Or are you just guilty, Zuzu?”  
  
“ _Azula._ ”  
  
Azula stepped toward him, leaning into his face. “Are you guilty, brother? Because it should have been you—”  
  
“STOP IT!” Zuko threw his hands forward and felt something within him break open. Suddenly the sun’s warmth wasn’t enough, and his palms tingled almost painfully. Deep red fire gushed from his hands, taking up his entire field of vision for a moment. His surprise quickly killed the fire, and Azula easily dissipated any remaining flames that surrounded her. His flames. He’d done that.  
  
Fire thrummed through his body so hard that he felt lightheaded. His chest felt like it might burst with the barely withheld furnace within him. He’d tapped into something, something vicious and insatiable. He stared at his hands, trying to get a grip on this new feeling as Azula just giggled.  
  
The girl looked to Sensei Masaru and chirped a haughty, “You’re welcome,” before turning on her heal and leaving the practice grounds.  
  
Zuko stared after her as Masaru just snorted. “Well, that’s one way to do it. You’ll have to properly thank the Princess when you get the chance, boy.”  
  
Zuko didn’t reply, just slowly took his stance once again. He wasn’t sure if Azula had helped him or hurt him. 

***

After his mind-numbingly boring history lesson, Zuko headed back toward his bedroom. He needed to be alone for a while to evaluate whatever had awoken inside of him.  
  
He had hoped that his lessons would be at least semi interesting, but the instructor was an old lion vulture of a woman who had a penchant for cuffing him when he nodded off during her monotonous lectures. Today’s lesson had been even worse with the fire that churned in Zuko’s stomach the entire time. It’d been impossible for him to sit still as heat shot from his core through his limbs.  
  
Staring at his hands on his way to his room, he managed to nearly collide with Azula as she came around a corner.  
  
“Watch it,” she scoffed.  
  
“You watch it!” he immediately retorted. As he said it, heat rushed to his fists. He broke out in a cold sweat, taken off guard. That… was new.  
  
Azula grinned and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “Liking your new fire, Zuzu?”  
  
He glared at her, but the look quickly faded. Zuko looked back down at his hands. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.  
  
“You should be thanking me, you know.”  
  
“Whatever, Azula.”  
  
“So ungrateful,” she sneered, still grinning. “You know, Father might actually spare you a glance now that you can produce some real fire.”  
  
Zuko shot his sister a desperately hopeful look. “You think?” Oh, gods, what was he saying? He quickly curbed his emotions, immediately embarrassed, and cleared his throat. “I mean, he probably won’t.”  
  
Azula rolled her eyes. “Oh Zuko, you’re such a pathetic little koala sheep,” she teased. He glowered at her, but didn’t say anything. “Who knows,” she continued, “maybe he’ll give you more private lessons now.”  
  
Zuko’s stomach clenched. He wanted that. He wanted to know that Father thought he was capable… but he was terrified of going back into that dojo. “Do you get private lessons a lot from him?” he asked.  
  
Azula paused before she answered, “Of course.”  
  
Zuko’s brow creased and he met his sister’s eyes before she looked away haughtily. There had been something off about her statement. Anyone else would have missed it, but he could tell when his sister was overcompensating.  
  
Gods, Azula was so much like Father.  
  
He wanted to ask her something, but he didn’t want to say it. They’d never been terribly close, and he didn’t want her to mock him. But they only seemed to be getting more distant, and he had a feeling that if he didn’t bring it up now, he’d never be able to. Zuko looked down at his feet, smoothed his tunic, picked at a nail, and then finally mumbled, “Azula, do you think Father loves you?”  
  
“I know he does,” she answered instantly, and he risked a glance to her. She was still looking away from him. “He loves me more than he loved Mother,” she said quietly. “He told me himself.”  
  
Zuko took a step back from her, stunned. “Th-that’s wrong,” he breathed.  
  
“Is it?” Azula shot back, looking at him, her amber eyes burning into him. “Is it really, Zuzu?”  
  
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. Her statement mortified him, and he had no idea why.  
  
Azula sniffed and took a step toward him. “Father’s love isn’t free, Zuzu. You have to earn it.”  
  
“I know,” Zuko grumbled, “but… but it seems like nothing I do is enough.”  
  
“Then maybe you’re just not good enough,” she hissed.  
  
He glared at her, her words striking a chord that made the corners of his eyes sting. “What do you know?” he snarled.  
  
She grinned, “You’re right. You’re the heir apparent, after all. What would the lowly second-born know?” With that she brushed past Zuko, leaving the air heavy with superiority.  
  
Zuko squeezed his fists as fire ate him up inside, and quickly stalked off toward his room. Damn Azula. She knew that he didn’t have a knack for military history or tactics. That he wasn’t a natural at firebending. She knew that he was the worst Fire Prince in the history of the Fire Nation.  
  
He entered his bedroom and froze, thinking for a second that he’d gone into the wrong room. The room looked like one of the basic guest bedrooms. The blue dragon curtains, bedding, and furniture had all been replaced with plain black and red décor. Even the tapestry was missing.  
  
Zuko blinked, and then leaned out the door to check the hallway. Yep. Right hallway. He was definitely in the private quarters of the royal family. He looked back around the room, his heart sinking as he realized what had happened.  
  
Father had decided on a punishment for him.  
  
Zuko pushed the sliding door closed behind him, frustration and hurt and other emotions he couldn’t name seeping from him. He wanted to burn this alien room to the ground and he also wanted to collapse onto his bed and cry.  
  
Instead, he just sank down to the floor, gripping his hair with burning hands. He shouldn’t be so upset. It wasn’t even the changes to the bedroom that made this so bad. Sure, those blue dragons had been his last physical connection to his mother, but even that wasn’t all of it.  
  
No, he hated this punishment because it was so fucking impersonal. Father had at least taken the time to correct him himself before, however harsh it had been. He’d taken time out of his day to pay attention to Zuko, to show him that he noticed, that Zuko was worth reprimand. This time, he’d just ordered a few servants to clean out his room, barely an afterthought in his busy day as Fire Lord.  
  
Fire roared inside of him, growing stronger and stronger as he fell into the darkest recesses of his mind. He wanted the cane. He wanted his father’s rough hands. He wanted the connection, needed the pain.  
  
He staggered to his feet, gasping for breath as the fire nearly consumed him. Looking around desperately for something that was familiar, Zuko’s eyes fell on the knife Uncle Iroh had given him months before. It was sitting innocently on the dresser, the last remnant of his previous room.  
  
He stared at it… and an idea formed in his head. An idea that scared him with how tantalizing it was. Zuko shuddered, tearing himself away from the knife and what it promised, and stumbled to his bed. He crawled in, feeling feverish as he pulled the cold blankets all the way up to his nose.  
  
He hoped he’d be better by the morning; he didn’t get sick days anymore.


	5. An Uncle's Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko's demons are sinking their teeth deeper, but Uncle Iroh may be able to loosen those jaws a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Angst, Self-harm mentioned.
> 
> Iroh is bae. That is all.
> 
> So I'm going to be taking a hiatus for NaNoWriMo through November. I'm sorry to leave you all for so long, but I will be back in December with a regular update schedule again (or sooner if I fail miserably at Nano hnnnnng).

Two weeks later, Zuko was playing with his food at the dinner table while Ozai and Azula discussed some military conquest the Fire Nation had just achieved. Zuko couldn’t pretend to care this time. He’d given up on trying to insert himself into his father and sister’s conversations. He hardly understood most of the terminology they used, and they always ignored him anyway.

The conversation came to a halt when the doors to the family dining room opened. Zuko glanced up, and then gazed in surprise as a man dressed in simple gray robes and a white sash entered.

“Brother,” Ozai said, just barely keeping the shock from his voice. “What a… surprise.”

Zuko watched Uncle Iroh shuffle into the dining room and take a seat next to Azula. The girl visibly leaned away from the older man as Iroh sank into the chair. Zuko frowned at her. Uncle Iroh was obviously still an emotional wreck. His face was drawn and a few more gray hairs had taken up residence in his beard and topknot. His amber eyes, which Zuko remembered had been so jovial, were dull like barely lit coals.

The servants quickly poured him some tea and fetched him a meal. Iroh sipped his tea and then leaned back in his chair. “I decided it was time to reconnect with my family,” he said. Zuko was stunned by how warm the man’s gravelly voice still was after all he’d been through.

Ozai arched a brow, “You are certainly welcome, brother.”

Zuko glanced at his father, trying to detect the tone of his voice. Was that smugness? N-no, it had to be sincerity.

“Thank you, Ozai,” Iroh replied, not a hint of anger or disdain in his words. The old man smiled at Azula and Zuko, though the expression seemed to take a great deal of effort for him. “So, how are my niece and nephew doing?”

“I’ve just mastered my second advanced form,” Azula immediately answered, pride practically oozing from her. Zuko frowned and looked back at his plate of barely touched food.

“I see,” Iroh replied. “You are clearly a gifted young lady.”

Zuko couldn’t hold back a sarcastic snort. ‘Lady’. Ha. He shrunk in his chair when he felt both Azula’s and Father’s glares.

“And Zuko, how are you?” Iroh continued as if the silent exchange hadn’t happened.

The Prince let a piece of bamboo shoot plop back onto his plate. “I’ve started intermediate lessons,” he mumbled.

It was Azula’s turn to snort, to which Ozai simply sipped his tea, tuned out of the conversation apparently. Iroh seemed to ignore these responses as well, his attention focused on Zuko. “That’s very good, nephew. You are developing at a perfectly normal rate.”

Zuko scowled at his plate. _Normal?_ He couldn’t possibly be _normal_. Zuko glanced at his father, who was giving Iroh a sour look over the rim of his teacup. No, Zuko knew he wasn’t doing well enough. He wasn’t just any firebender; he was the Fire Prince.  

“But training is not all I care about when it comes to my family,” Iroh continued. “Are you fitting into your new role as prince, Zuko?”

The boy was feeling smaller and smaller. Why was Uncle bringing this up at the dinner table, in front of Father of all people? Did Iroh also realize how much of a failure Zuko was? Was Uncle just trying to humiliate him?

“Fitting like a koala sheep in a kimono,” Azula sneered before Zuko could think of an answer.

“Shut it, Azula!”

“ _Enough,_ ” Ozai commanded, and both siblings fell quiet.

Silence stretched on for a few moments as Azula smugly ate her food and Zuko stared glumly at his plate.

“Zuko,” Iroh said calmly after a minute. The boy lifted his eyes to his uncle. “Would you like to have tea with me tomorrow, after your lessons?”

Zuko blinked, brow crinkling. “Why?”

Iroh smiled, “I’d like to reconnect with my nephew.”

Zuko stared at him, trying to figure out Iroh’s motive. What was this, some kind of test? Why would Uncle Iroh want to spend time with him after…

Zuko felt a stab of guilt in his gut when the exact nature of he and his uncle’s relationship dawned on him. Lu Ten, his cousin, and Iroh’s only son, had been Crown Prince. Zuko had replaced Lu Ten. And he was horrible at it. He was a terrible Prince. He was dishonoring cousin Lu Ten with every moment he wore the title.

Fire roared in his stomach and up his chest, warming the ends of his chopsticks so quickly he feared he would burn them. He didn’t want to have tea with Uncle Iroh. He didn’t want to face that guilt.

“Zuko.”

The boy looked back to his uncle and met his eyes. He hadn’t seen such kind eyes since Ursa had disappeared.

“Come have tea with me. Please?”

“… Alright.”

 

***

 

The patio of the Fire Nation palace was gorgeous. It was constructed of dark wood with graceful yet bold designs. Wooden lattice-work screens allowed just enough sunlight in to warm the area, while the paper awning provided some lovely shade. Dozens of red cushions surrounded a multitude of low tables. It had been many months since any guests had used the area though. It had been many months since they’d had any guests at all.

Zuko made his way around the cushions, favoring one leg. Sensei had whacked him across the knee that morning, and now pain shot through the joint with each step. Sitting through his hour long lesson had not helped matters.

He headed toward the back portion of the patio where Uncle Iroh waited. Zuko tasted bile in his throat when he saw the white mourning sash Uncle still wore.

“Zuko!” Iroh greeted him jovially as he heated the water in a plain white teapot with his hands. “Good to see you. Please, sit down.”

The boy sat stiffly on the plush cushion. He felt like he was sitting on a piece of iron as he watched Uncle heat the water effortlessly before he put the basket of tealeaves into the pot. Zuko still hadn’t attempted the simple trick. He had even less control now; he was sure he’d shatter another priceless piece of china.           

“Did you hurt your leg?” Iroh asked, still busy with preparing the tea.

Zuko blinked. No one else had asked him about it. “It’s fine,” he muttered, looking away, his hands resting in fists on his knees.

Iroh didn’t press him, just gave a non-committal grunt. “The tea is almost ready. I hope you like jasmine,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t really have a preference.”

“Nonsense,” Uncle rumbled. He seemed livelier than Zuko had seen him since his return. “Everyone has a favorite tea, it’s just a matter of trying enough to find yours.”

Zuko watched his uncle prepare their tea with practiced care, frowning. Had that been some sort of proverb? It seemed a normal enough sentence, but the inflection in Uncle’s voice had made it seem like more.

They fell quiet while Iroh let the tea steep and then carefully poured the light amber-colored liquid. The color reminded Zuko of his father’s eyes. The thought brought a shiver to his spine.

Zuko carefully took his cup when Iroh passed it to him, staring into the depths of the tea. Steam caressed his nose and tiny pieces of tealeaves swirled around the bottom of the cup.  

“How are your lessons, Zuko?” Iroh asked, sipping his own tea and sighing happily. “I hear you are learning military history.”      

Zuko snorted, setting the cup down without drinking any.

Iroh chuckled. “I can assume that means it’s not going well?”

The boy’s frown deepened and fire crackled between his teeth. He pressed his lips together, glancing at Iroh.

His uncle gave him a knowing smile. “You can vent. Go ahead. I won’t tell anyone.”

Zuko stared back at him, and then erupted. “Kaede’s such a _hag_! With her stupid cane and her stupid boar-q-pine hair! I just want to grab that cane and shove it in her stupid boring pinched face!” He slammed his fists down on the table, a burst of fire spewing up from them.

Iroh wasn’t fazed by the fire, though his eyes did follow the little plume of smoke that drifted up. “It seems to me that her teaching style does not line up with your learning style,” he said.

Zuko’s anger simmered. “Yeah, you can say that again. Military history is the most boring thing in the world,” he muttered.

Iroh chuckled, took a sip of tea, and then leaned in toward his nephew. “Zuko, may I tell you a story?”      

The Prince looked at him, “What kind of story?” he asked. What was he, five?

“One I think you’ll enjoy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. Zuko might have refused if it weren’t for the little spark he saw light his uncle’s eyes. He didn’t want to be the one to snuff that out.

“Ok, sure. If you want.”

Iroh’s smile widened and he leaned back a little, gazing up at the roof of the patio.

*

When it was decided that the Fire Nation military would advance into the great beast that was the Earth Kingdom, many were skeptical. Fire Nation forces had successfully occupied some boarder cities for decades, but no one had yet thought of a good enough plan to tackle the great expanse of the country.

Not until a strategy was proposed that stunned the war council. Attack Ba Sing Se, directly.

I had been pushing for a more aggressive assault for years, but had not been able to garner much support. This person who spoke so boldly immediately caught my attention. The young soldier was brushed off at the council meeting, but I tracked them down afterwards. Together, we came up with a plan.

Six months later, we were on a ship headed for reconnaissance at the relic of the Eastern Air temple. We sailed for a day, and then during the night, I gave the order to change course.

When the crew realized what was happening many of them questioned my judgement. We gathered around the upper deck, and I saw mutiny in their eyes. How could I expect them to follow me into an unplanned battle that went directly against the Fire Lord’s orders? Things looked bad, until my ally spoke up from the crowd.

“Iroh is the Crown Prince! Defying him is as dishonorable as defying the Fire Lord!”

The tides changed quickly, and I won them over with a speech about the glory and honor of being the first to breech the inner sanctum of the Earth Kingdom.

Three days later, we arrived at her shores. To our surprise, however, the town we landed in was overrun by Earth Kingdom soldiers. Somehow, they had prepared for an attack from the Fire Nation. We never did figure out how they’d known.

We were outnumbered and outmatched, and we knew our best chance was to stay on the ship. None of us wanted to go hand to hand with that many Earth Kingdom soldiers.

The first volley of flaming projectiles descended upon the town. Townspeople worked to put out the flames on their thatch houses, but could little against our fire.

Still, the earthbenders were prepared. They sent a return volley of huge boulders that raised 50-foot waves when they crashed into the water. One took out the guard tower, nearly killing the watchman. Another crashed into one of the ship’s engines. Engineers rushed to fix it, but it would take time for them to first move the rock, and then get to work. Black smoke billowed from the ship and I knew it was time to bring the fight to the earthbenders.

But before I could issue the order, my ally rushed to my side. “Wait, just please wait a few minutes more. We’re about to get some help.”

I had no idea what my friend was talking about. “We have to go now, the ship is getting destroyed,” I said.

“Please, Colonel Iroh, please trust me.”

The look in that soldier’s eye is one I will never forget. Complete certainty. There was no doubt that whatever my friend believed was coming would be there for us.

So I waited. I ordered the engineers to transfer all power to the one remaining engine and to add extra coal to the fire, creating a smoke screen. We still felt the boulders crashing into the hull of the ship, but Fire Nation steel is the strongest in the world.

We continued to blindly throw projectiles as I waited for whatever my ally knew was coming.

Minutes later, the wind shifted so suddenly that the ship lurched toward the town. Our smoke screen dissipated, swirling forward in a rush of cold air from the sea behind us. Simultaneously, the ship lowered as water receded back into the ocean.

We all looked back the way we’d come to see coal black storm clouds rushing in faster than a stampeding heard of komodo rhinos. In their wake, a swell in the water taller than the ship rapidly approached.

“Batten down the hatches! Secure all posts! Hold onto something!” my orders rang out. We tied down everything that could be tied down, and then tied ourselves down, hunkering as low as possible. It seemed the Earth Kingdom soldiers had realized what was coming as well, seeing as the sound of rocks pelting us stopped.

The ship tipped and rose, and I prayed that the wave would not crest over us. The ship seemed to turn completely vertical, rising so high that in the distance, I could just barely see the outer wall of Ba Sing Se.            

Then we were over the swell, bridging it just before its crest.

The wave crashed into the Earth Kingdom town, sweeping whole buildings away with its might. Even though we’d avoided the crest, the force of the wave still threw us into the shore. My safety line strained, cutting into my waist even through my armor as I was thrown this way and that. I could only hope that mine and the knots of the crew held.

The chaos ceased as we became stationary again, the sunny day turned suddenly into a cold downpour. The ship was beached and bent, but not broken. We untied our lines and shimmied down to finish what we’d started.

After that, capturing the remaining Earth Kingdom soldiers was a simple matter, and we claimed the largest port on the eastern side of the Earth Kingdom. Father was angry that I had directly defied him, but not angry enough to keep from promoting me to General.

*

Zuko was riveted to his cushion, his elbows leaning on the table and his chin in his hands, listening to the story like a dry sponge soaking up water. The tea was forgotten next to him, steam no longer drifting from it. Nothing in the world was more interesting than Uncle Iroh’s story.  

“Wait, largest port city? That means…”

The old man grinned, taking a sip of his tea before saying, “Yes, Zuko, that is the story of Dazaifu. And my ally in the matter was no other than Yuyan Akane.”

Zuko’s eyes widened. “The woman who started the Yuyan Archers?”

“Her daughter, actually. Yuyan Atsuko was the one who founded the archers back when I was a child. Her daughter, Akane, went on to be a star soldier for many years.”

Zuko could hardly believe all that he was hearing. He sat back, mouth hanging open. “My teacher covered the Battle of Dazaifu, and I knew you were there, but I had no idea it was so… so cool!”

Iroh chuckled, “Military history can be boring, Zuko, like all things. But it can also be exciting. You just have to hear it from the right source.”

Zuko grinned back, but then his expression fell a little. He ran a finger over the rim of the teacup. “I wish you could be my history teacher.”

When Iroh didn’t reply, Zuko looked back up at him. He blinked, trying to figure out what he saw in his uncle’s expression. Iroh looked both exuberant and terribly sad. Doubt and worry, happiness and hope battled behind those dark gold eyes. Zuko immediately regretted his words. Had Iroh personally taught Lu Ten or something? What if he’d brought up painful memories? Or worse, what if Iroh just didn’t want to teach him? What if he was beyond teaching?

Zuko gulped and quickly looked down at his lap. “I-I should go. Please excuse me, Uncle,” he got out before he stood, bowed, and then bolted from the patio.

 

***

 

Zuko sat in his room a few hours later. He was still turning the conversation with Uncle over and over in his head. He had to have made a mistake somewhere. He’d been foolish. He shouldn’t have been so impetuous as to request that Iroh be his teacher. Uncle would never want to teach his son’s replacement.

The dagger that Uncle Iroh himself had gotten him sat in Zuko’s lap. It had sat there quite a few times over the last two weeks. Zuko ran his thumb over the pearl handle, staring at the inscription. _Never give up without a fight._ His stomach clenched as his mother’s last words floated to him, painfully similar to the inscription. ‘Never stop fighting.’ What did all of it even mean? Who or what was he supposed to fight?

He picked up the knife, hesitantly letting himself think about the thing he’d been pushing back into the darkest recesses of his mind.

Would it feel good? No, that was stupid. He’d been cut before and it had hurt. So, of course it would hurt. Pain didn’t feel good. And yet, the temptation was there, present, pulsing, like an itch in the middle of his back that he couldn’t reach.

Other than at the dinner table, he hadn’t seen Father since that night. Even nightly dinners seemed to be on thin ice. Zuko could feel Ozai resenting the time spent with his two children, or maybe just the time spent with him. The Fire Lord continuously left earlier and earlier; it was only a matter of time before they would all take their dinner alone.

Zuko stared at the sharp edge of the dagger, imagining it pressing on his skin, just enough pressure to tap into the red reservoir inside of him.

If he went through with it – he balked at the thought, but humored it for the moment – where would he even do it? His arms? No, too noticeable. Actually, anywhere on his upper body would be too noticeable. He trained shirtless, and he didn’t know how Masaru would react, but he didn’t want to find out.

Legs then? Maybe his thigh or hip? Those seemed concealable.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the handle tightly. Augh, what was he thinking? This was stupid. The little urge at the back of his mind was just stupid. It made no sense whatsoever. He’d told himself that over and over again.

So why was the temptation still there?

Knocking at his door jolted Zuko from his thoughts. The knock was soft, polite, and for a moment the boy’s heart leapt painfully, a split second of irrational hope for someone he knew was gone arcing through him.

“Zuko? It’s Uncle Iroh.”

The hope left him vacant and cold. Zuko gulped and quickly put the dagger back in its hilt before he called, “Come in, Uncle.”

Iroh slid the door open and peeked in before he stepped all the way in, giving Zuko a smile. He walked to the boy’s bed, “May I sit down?” he asked politely.

The boy shrugged, glancing away. “Sure.”

The bed shifted as Iroh sat. “Zuko,” he murmured, voice strangely dampened in the quiet room. “I talked to your father…”

Zuko’s stomach dropped out and his back tensed like a bowstring. Had Uncle told Father about his outburst? He’d said it was ok to vent, but what if he’d been lying?

“… and he said that, if you liked, I could be your new military history teacher.”

Zuko’s eyes widened, and his head snapped to look at his uncle. The man was smiling, his expression hesitantly excited. “He said it would be ok?” Zuko repeated with bated breath.

Iroh nodded, “You enjoyed my story so much, and mentioned that you’d like it if I were your teacher, so I thought it would do no harm to ask Ozai if he would mind. It took a little convincing, but he concurred that it would be beneficial for all of us.”

Zuko stared at Iroh incredulously. He could really be rid of the hag? He’d be able to hear incredible stories of Uncle’s military ventures? But, there had to be some catch. This was too good to be true.

“So, will you accept me as your teacher, nephew?” Iroh asked, real uncertainty in his eyes.

A smile worked its way onto Zuko’s face and he quickly stared at his lap. “I’d like that a lot,” he murmured.

Iroh’s grin widened and he placed a warm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Good, I’m glad. Meet me on the patio again for your history lesson,” he instructed, his voice warmer than a crackling fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you're craving more stuff regarding Zuko and Zuko's history and specifically the history of Ursa and Ozai, check out this bomb ass story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4796162/chapters/10976456
> 
> (It's actually inspired by mine which is like a super honor [HONOR!] to have someone be inspired enough to actually write something of their own from reading my stuff. Check it!)


	6. Lesson Three: Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko's hit a wall in his training, and Masaru's methods aren't helping matters. Iroh decides to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Child abuse, Physical abuse, Sexual abuse mentioned, Angst. 
> 
> I'm back! Hoboy guys, this chapter was fun as hell to write. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

_Six months later…_

It had happened again.

Zuko sat at tea with Uncle Iroh, unable to listen to Iroh’s story that day. He was too focused on what had happened that morning. He kept feeling Masaru’s cold hand on the back of his neck, on his inner thigh, along his stomach…

“Zuko?”

The boy blinked and looked at his uncle over the table.

“You seem quite distracted,” Iroh commented, tilting his head curiously.

Zuko glanced down at his cold tea. He didn’t feel like tea. He didn’t feel like anything. “Sorry, Uncle.”

Iroh was quiet for a moment, and then said gently, “Why don’t we skip the lesson for today and just talk, hm?”

Zuko looked out across the manicured lawn toward the far wall of the palace, not saying anything. He shouldn’t skip his lessons. He had to learn everything he could. Had to be perfect for Father.

“How are you, Nephew? How is your training?”

Zuko didn’t answer immediately, trying to decide what he should say. Honestly? It was horrible. He hated it. “It’s fine.”

“Have you been improving?”

“Yes. I can perform nearly all of the intermediate forms, and have been working on my first expert form.”

“Good!” Iroh exclaimed happily. “That’s wonderful to hear, Zuko. You are progressing quickly!”

Zuko didn’t join in his uncle’s excitement. The truth was that he’d hit a wall. He just couldn’t get the control needed for the expert form, and it seemed Masaru had exhausted every method he knew to get Zuko to employ more control.

Every method.

_Rough fingers over his hips. Stubby, sharp nails digging into his skin._

Iroh leaned forward a little. “Zuko, you don’t look happy with your progress.”

Zuko scowled, though it was more of a pout than a scowl. “I just…” He huffed a breath. Princes don’t complain.

“Just what?” Iroh gently prompted.

Zuko’s hands squeezed into fists on his knees, keeping his palms faced away from Uncle’s gaze. They were lined with bruises. Masaru had caned his palms every time he didn’t control his fire well enough. It also hadn’t helped. “I was doing better for a few months, but now I can’t seem to make progress no matter how hard I try.”

“Oh,” Iroh said simply. He leaned back and folded his hands on his belly. Uncle’s belly had gotten a little rounder in the past months, but Zuko hadn’t commented. That white sash was still the most prominent thing about him. “You’ve hit a plateau.”

The Prince glanced back at his uncle, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Iroh shrugged. “It happens to everyone,” he said, picking up his teacup. “You make a lot of progress and then you level off for a while. It just means that you need a new direction. You need to come at the problem from a different angle.”

Zuko stared at him. How could Uncle be so nonchalant about this? This was awful! He’d tried every ‘angle’ Masaru had given him, and _nothing_ was working. He ground his teeth and the words spilled out before he could stop them. “But Uncle I’ve already tried different angles! I’ve tried everything!”

Iroh frowned in concern at this. He thought for a moment, and then asked, “Zuko, who is your teacher?”

Zuko stared into his lap, his heart thudding against his chest, fire tingling his palms. “Sensei Masaru,” he answered, unable to keep the contempt from his voice.

Iroh nearly choked on his tea as he was taking a sip. “ _What?_ ”

Zuko stared at him, surprised by the reaction. “Sensei Masaru?”

The old man stared back, his eyes wide, troubled concern radiating from him. “He’s not… he shouldn’t be…” Iroh stopped talking and looked away, stroking his beard as he frowned.

Zuko was bewildered by this response. Masaru was a man of honor, specially chosen by the Fire Lord. Why was Iroh so concerned? “Uncle?”

Iroh looked back to Zuko, really looking at him. The boy avoided the gaze as he felt it grow in intensity, wondering what Iroh was looking for as those warm eyes moved up and down him.

“I’m just… surprised,” Iroh replied, sipping his tea and seeming to calm down. “Masaru has not taught in quite some time. I didn’t realize he’d come out of retirement.”

“Oh.” Zuko traced the rim of his teacup with his finger. How strange. He wondered what had caused Masaru to go into retirement in the first place. He didn’t seem quite that old.

“Did your father choose this teacher?” Iroh asked next.

“Yes.”

Iroh’s gaze darkened like a storm cloud. He turned away again and sipped more tea, deep in thought.

Zuko looked down at his lap, flexing his bruised palms.

Iroh sighed and poured himself some more tea. “Let’s move to a different topic. Do you have any girls you’re interested in?” he asked, tone changing to embarrassingly suggestive.

“What? No!” Zuko immediately retorted, cheeks coloring. He pouted and looked away. Honestly, Uncle Iroh could be so annoying sometimes.

 

***

 

Zuko automatically woke up as the sky started to turn gray the next morning. He stared out his window, blinking blearily at the steel-colored sky for a moment. At least it was better than the red-orange-gold glow of the sunrise and sunset. Maybe it would even be cloudy today.

He rolled out of bed and headed right toward the practice field. He’d begun putting his training clothes on before he went to bed so he didn’t have to bother with it in the morning. He tied his hair up as he walked, too tired to yawn.

Uncle Iroh’s lessons had helped a little. Zuko didn’t hate military history anymore. In fact, he actually looked forward to it most days. Uncle even said they’d be moving on to tactics soon, which he was eager for. History was important and all, but he wanted to apply it.

If he was honest with himself, he still hated his training. He hated going to that awful field with its obsidian guards. He hated Masaru.

Zuko frowned. Why had Uncle been so alarmed when Zuko had told him the name of his teacher? It hadn’t sounded good.

But… Father couldn’t be _wrong_. That was just impossible.

Maybe the Fire Lord didn’t know about whatever Uncle Iroh knew about Masaru. Perhaps he was just misinformed. If that were the case, Masaru wouldn’t be able to run fast or far enough to escape Father’s wrath.

The thought gave Zuko a small grin. He’d like to see Father teach Masaru a lesson.

He made his way out to the practice field, bowing at the entrance, and then froze one step in.

At the center of the practice field were four people including Sensei. Two others were prison guards. Zuko couldn’t quite get a look at the other person, but he assumed they were a prisoner. They were kneeling in the dirt and wore rough spun prison clothes. If that wasn’t enough, they also had shackles chaining their wrists and ankles.

Masaru gave Zuko a thin smile as the boy cautiously approached. “Today we will be having a different type of lesson,” he announced.

Zuko gave Masaru a hesitant look before studying the prisoner more closely. The man’s head was bowed, arms limp in the shackles, his dark hair covering his face. “What is this about?” Zuko asked.

Masaru moved to his bag of goodies and pulled out a long, curved sword. Zuko’s eyes widened when he saw it, his throat going dry. Masaru used crops and other blunt weapons, not actual bladed weapons. What did he plan to _do_ with that thing?

The man paced between Zuko and the guards with the prisoner, the sword grasped almost casually in his hand. “A leader,” he started, “is merciless. A leader knows instinctually what punishment fits a crime. A leader stands by his word, and by his actions. He is decisive. He is ruthless.”

He stopped in his pacing, facing Zuko and planting the tip of the sword in the dirt as he stared down at the boy. “These are qualities you lack. This is why your firebending will not get stronger.”

Zuko felt his pride waver, but forced himself to keep his shoulders up, his chest out, letting his defiant streak keep him from completely imploding.

Masaru’s grin widened, and Zuko felt a shiver run down his spine.

Masaru handed him the sword.

Zuko blinked, staring at it, and then looked back to Masaru. “Sensei?”

“What are you staring at, boy? Take the sword.”

Zuko gingerly took it, nearly dropping the weapon when he felt how heavy it was. He gripped it with both hands, his small hands barely taking up half the hilt. He let the tip rest on the ground, not sure how exactly to hold the thing. It was big and bulky. Did Sensei want him to learn how to use this sword? Why?

Masaru stepped to the side. “Kill this prisoner,” he commanded.

Zuko balked, golden eyes wide as he stared up at the man. “What?!”

Masaru’s eyes narrowed and he repeated, enunciating each word, “Kill. This. Prisoner.”

Zuko looked back down at the crouched man, his heart hammering against his chest, a cold sweat breaking out over his brow. “I-I can’t do that!”

“This man is a Water Tribe insurgent. He forfeit his life when he stood against the Fire Nation.”

“That—I—!” Zuko sputtered, trying to get his mind to catch up with what was happening. He couldn’t just _kill_ this person!

Masaru’s hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed. “This is why you will always be weak, boy,” he growled. “Why you will never be an effective ruler. You are not willing to do what is necessary.”

“I’m not going to kill someone in cold blood!” he shouted back at Masaru, his hands shaking around the sword.

Masaru shook his head, sighing. “Well, I will have to inform the Fire Lord that his Crown Prince’s training must end. There is nothing more I can do to further his abilities.”

Zuko’s refusal lost all its steam. He suddenly felt sick, his hands cold as ice. “Sensei, you can’t be serious…”

Masaru shook his head, waving at the guards. “Take the prisoner away. His execution will be with the others’ tomorrow.”

The guards started to gather up the man, pulling him to his feet as Zuko stared in horror. Was this… was this really what it would take? He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands white-knuckled the sword. What would be worse? Killing this man, traitor as he was…

Or facing his father’s wrath?

“STOP!” Zuko shouted, his chest heaving. He glared at the guards, “Bring him back here.”

The guards stood, surprised, and then quickly jumped to follow the order, pulling the prisoner back down to his knees in front of Zuko.

The Prince stared down at the prisoner, repositioning his hands on the sword. This was it. He had to do this. There was no other choice. This man was going to die anyway. He was just speeding the process along.

“Make it clean,” were Masaru’s only words of advice as he stood and watched, his bulging arms folded over his chest.

Zuko gulped and hefted the sword up over his head, staring down at the man. He had to do this. He had no choice. He had to do this. He had to. Had to…

The prisoner finally raised his head, and Zuko gasped as he saw the first pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen in life. They were deep and dark and so, so sad. He saw sorrow there, and he saw pity. He did not see fear. The man was facing his own death, and he was not afraid.

Zuko stood there, his arms shaking with the weight of the sword over his head, frozen in the position. Oh gods, he couldn’t do this. But he had to! But, he couldn’t kill someone, not like this!

“Make your father proud, boy,” Masaru growled.

Zuko felt tears prick the corners of his eyes as he took a shaking breath, gripping the sword tighter—

“ZUKO _STOP!_ ” a voice roared from the entrance of the practice grounds. Zuko gave a strangled cry and dropped the sword, stepping back from the prisoner in horrified relief.

Masaru’s head snapped toward the entrance. “Iroh? How _dare_ you interrupt my lesson,” he snarled.

Iroh? Zuko ripped his eyes from the prisoner and turned numbly toward the entrance. Sure enough, storming toward them, his white sash fluttering, was Uncle Iroh. His expression was twisted in rage as he approached. “You call _this_ a lesson?” he demanded.

Masaru’s cool exterior cracked a little as the old man stopped a few feet from him. Iroh quickly shooed the guards away with the prisoner as Masaru seethed, “I am the boy’s teacher. I decide what is best for—”

“Using prisoners as sacrifices for your young pupils to slaughter is archaic and _cruel!_ ” Iroh roared. Zuko just stared, eyes wide. He’d never heard Uncle speak like that before.

“What would you know, old man?” Masaru hissed.

Iroh took another step toward him, unfazed, teeth bared. “I know abuse when I see it, and it has gone on _long enough!_ Leave now, Masaru. My nephew no longer needs your tutorage.”

Zuko’s eyes were the size of saucers. Abuse? Wait, was that what had been happening? But… no, this was how he became stronger. Right?

“It is not in your authority to dismiss me as the boy’s teacher,” Masaru growled back.

“Leave now, or I will _make you_ ,” Iroh retorted, foot sliding back as he sat into a fighting stance. There was no bluff in his voice or in his fiery gaze.

Masaru’s eyes widened, and then he too dropped into a fighting pose. “So it’s a fight you want? Are you sure you still have it in you after your humiliating defeat?” he sneered, raising his fists up in front of him.

Zuko could hardly breathe with the anticipation that coursed through him. He decided to just back up as far as he could, his back pressing to one of the stones. He’d never seen two firebending masters go all out. He wasn’t sure exactly what was about to happen, but he knew he shouldn’t be anywhere near it, and that he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Iroh didn’t reply to Masaru’s taunt, and there was a moment of tense silence on the practice grounds.

Iroh attacked first. In the blink of an eye, his fists punched the air at three different points, sending blasts of fire the size of Masaru’s head at the man. Masaru dodged effortlessly, dissipating the fireballs with his own punches, his ugly, corded muscles twitching around his shoulders.

Masaru gave a roar of effort and hurled a huge gout of flame at Iroh, the flames crashing around him. Zuko watched, his heart racing, and a grin spread over his face as his uncle barely seemed to notice the fire coursing around him. Iroh placed his palms together and split the wave of fire with the points of his fingers, advancing on Masaru and closing the distance between them.

The fight turned into a close-quarters test of speed. Iroh punched, flames licking his knuckles, and Masaru blocked. Masaru kicked up toward Iroh’s head, Iroh ducked underneath his leg, sending a blast of fire at the man’s chest. The masters kicked, spun, and punched, flame trailing after every attack. Sparks permanently floated around them, the area rapidly heating.

Zuko’s eyes never left the fight, barely able to track either of their movements. He wasn’t even sure who was winning.

The answer became clear soon as Masaru’s breath started to come out in ragged bursts, sweat dripping from his shoulders and face. Iroh’s breathing, however, was deep and controlled, barely fazed by the exercise it seemed. His footing was sure, form low and rock solid. He came at Masaru unceasingly, forcing him to retreat farther and farther, rocking him back onto his heals.

Masaru grew progressively more desperate, his punches swinging wide, his flames growing bigger but cooler, moving from a sharp orange/yellow to a deep red.

Finally, he slipped, and Iroh brought his heal into the man’s temple, knocking him down to his knees.

Zuko could have cheered. Iroh had won! He’d shown that pitiful excuse for a teacher what a real master looked like!

Iroh walked toward the man as Masaru rested a fist in the dirt to hold himself up, panting, sweat dripping to the ground.

“Leave,” Iroh commanded.

Masaru seemed to constrict in on himself, his muscles tensing in rage and shame. He stumbled to his feet, head hanging. He slowly turned toward the entrance—

And sent a blast of fire right at Zuko.

The Prince didn’t even see it coming, completely distracted by how amazed he was with Iroh’s performance. He gasped, holding his arms up in front of him, his instincts screaming at him to move, to dissipate, to redirect…

But the flames never reached him. He slowly lowered his arms, gold eyes widening when he saw Uncle Iroh positioned in a wide lunge between Zuko and Masaru, arms out, the knee of his robes burnt and crumbling, showing blistering skin under the red fabric.

Even worse, the pristine white sash was blackened and burned on one end, smoke twirling up from the silk. Iroh’s eyes were closed, sweat dotting his brow at last.

Zuko’s stomach dropped. He’d done that. It was his fault. If he hadn’t been there, Masaru couldn’t have used him.

Iroh’s dark gold eyes slowly opened, and Zuko couldn’t read all of the emotions there, but he knew that this was the angriest he’d ever seen his uncle. But instead of turning that furious, boiling gaze onto him, Iroh turned toward Masaru, slowly standing straight.

The man tried to meet that gaze at first, but it quickly became apparent that this was a whole different game now. Masaru took a step back, the fight leaving him as Iroh slowly approached.

“Iroh,” he grunted, tone completely changed. “Iroh, you can’t really be considering this.”

Iroh said nothing. He just kept approaching with that livid look until it was Masaru that had his back pressed against an obelisk.

“Iroh, please!” the man begged, his entire cold, careless demeanor gone. He fell to his knees as Iroh planted his feet in a wide stance and took one long, huge breath.

When he could take in nothing more, Iroh opened his mouth and unleashed a veritable firestorm from his mouth. The sound was worthy of a dragon as yellow and white flame roared from his open mouth.

The gout of flames hit just above Masaru, licking up the side of the black stone. Masaru ducked down to dodge the fire, staring back in terrified confusion at Iroh. Zuko wondered what his uncle was doing as well, until a bone-shaking _CRACK_ echoed across the practice grounds. Zuko stared in disbelief at the obsidian obelisk behind Masaru as a huge fissure appeared up its smooth surface.

Seconds later, the obelisk burst with a deafening explosion, molten bits of obsidian scattering around the practice field.

Masaru was crouched on the ground, hands over his head, forehead pressed into the dirt. Zuko dodged a piece of flying rock, unable to stop staring at the scene before him. The hulking obelisk had been reduced to a jagged base of only a couple feet. Masaru huddled there like a child, utterly defeated.

Iroh approached the man, standing over him like a giant, and commanded once more, “ _Leave._ ”

Masaru shuddered, stumbling to his feet and tripping over a piece of molten rock before he darted away, practically running for the exit without another word.

Zuko watched him run, and then turned back toward Iroh. He gulped, hesitantly approaching his uncle as Iroh closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, his body slowly relaxing.

“Uncle?” Zuko said, voice hushed.

Iroh took one more breath and then turned to Zuko. All the anger was gone from his face, and that amiable smile was back. “Zuko, I’m glad you’re alright.”

The Prince stared at him, confounded. How could he be so calm after all that? Zuko looked away. “I… I’m sorry Uncle.”

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and Zuko looked back up at his uncle. The man’s expression was just as gentle as his warm touch. “You don’t need to apologize, Zuko.”

“But, your sash, if I hadn’t—”

“Sashes can be replaced, Nephew,” Iroh interrupted him. He patted Zuko’s shoulder before his hand fell away. “I will tell Ozai about Masaru, you’ve no need to worry. Take tomorrow morning off.”

Zuko stared at Iroh’s creased face, the gray strands that were rapidly taking over his black hair and beard, at his kind eyes, and emotions roiling through him. Iroh had saved him from that horrible teacher, but Zuko had needed saving in the first place. Zuko had wanted Masaru to be defeated—he hadn’t wanted to be rescued. He’d been weak.

He looked away, and just murmured, “Thank you, Uncle.”

The old man gave him a smile. “Go get some rest, Nephew. We won’t have your lesson today since I will be using that time to speak with my brother.”

“Ok,” Zuko muttered, voice hollow.

Iroh reached over to give his shoulder one more reassuring squeeze, and then gently directed the boy toward the exit of the practice grounds.


	7. The New Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko gets a new master and a new weapon--Ozai has a surprise planned for his son's birthday--and Iroh has some sad news for his nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Child abuse, angst. 
> 
> >_>
> 
> *looks at giant gulf of time between this chapter and the last*
> 
> ;>_>
> 
> Sorry this took literally forever. Thanks for being supportive guys.

_One month later_

***

_Zuko. Zuko, wake up. Come on, sleepy boy, you’re going to miss your birthday._

Zuko groaned, turning under his covers and pulling them up over his nose.

_Now, now, don’t you want to go to Ember Island, dear? I know you hate those stuffy, showy celebrations, so I convinced your father to take us to Ember Island instead. Won’t that be nice?_

“R-really?” Zuko mumbled, still half asleep, eyes still closed.

_Yes, but we can’t go if you sleep all day._

Ursa’s hand gently rested on his back, rubbing and pushing a little to rouse the boy. Her soft laughter filled the room… and then faded as quickly as it came.

Zuko frowned, eyes blinking open before he gasped and jolted up, frantically looking around the room. She had been there. It had felt so real!

But... no. No. Just another dream. Ursa wasn’t there.

And even worse, it was his birthday.

Zuko groaned again, flopping back down and pulling the pillow over his head. Maybe he really could just sleep all day. He was tired enough. And it was a chilly morning, the season changing quickly to winter. It would feel wonderful to just lay in bed all day under the warm covers.

The boy sighed and begrudgingly shoved the blankets off, shivering in the cool air. He had to get down to the practice field. Apparently, his father and uncle had found a new teacher for him. Zuko secretly hoped it was mostly Iroh that had found this teacher.

The prince hurried to his closet and pulled on his practice gear, putting on a shirt for warmth this time since he had nothing to hide anymore. Iroh had taken over teaching him in Masaru’s absence, which meant that many of the aches and pains in his body had finally healed. Zuko was grateful, of course… but sometimes he couldn’t help but get annoyed at how Iroh seemed to baby him. He wanted to learn. He wanted to succeed! But all Iroh liked to talk about was breathing and tea.

Hopefully, this teacher would be able to push him the way Zuko wanted.

Zuko made his way to the practice field, bowing quickly when he arrived. He spotted his uncle, who stood to the side of the ring, and then peered at the man who stood in the center of the field.

The man wore simple yet elegant Fire Nation attire. His hair was up in a neat topknot and his skin was as dark as a Water Tribesman. What he held, however, was what really captured Zuko's attention. He held a straight, simple shortsword, using it in a flowing, complex form that he performed perfectly. Zuko was immediately mesmerized. The man didn’t seem to wield the sword--it was more like it grew straight from his arm. A natural extension of his body.

He went through the form, his body shifting effortlessly, the sword swooping in graceful arcs and thrusting in slow, solid thrusts. It wasn’t until the man finished that Zuko realized he hadn’t fire bent during the entire thing.

Iroh grinned when the swordmaster closed his form, clapping his hands and cheering. “Incredible! Come, Zuko, I’d like you to meet your new teacher.”

The man approached with a reserved smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes. He bowed low when he reached the two firebenders, and finally spoke. “Prince Zuko. It is an honor. I am Master Piandao.”

Zuko was struck first that the man showed him so much respect, and second by the way he talked. His voice was so… dramatic. As if each word he said was brimming with significance. The prince quickly got his bearings and returned the bow. “Master Piandao,” he repeated, recognizing the name. “You’re in the military. The one they say has never lost a sword fight, right?”  

Piandao grinned and shrugged. “Don’t let the rumors fool you. I’ve lost plenty of fights… just, not any that involved blades.”

Zuko almost smiled, but glanced away, brow furrowing. “Aren’t you a non-bender though?” he asked, not meaning for it to sound as rude as it came off.

Iroh chuckled. “Every discipline can offer you valuable insight into your own mastery of firebending, nephew.”

Piandao gave Iroh a knowing look before he nodded. “I’ve trained benders and non-benders alike. All came away stronger than they were before.”

Zuko glanced between his uncle and Piandao, sensing a camaraderie there. They’d probably fought together. The boy nodded once. “I guess I could try it.” Anything had to be better than breathing exercises for two hours.

Piandao’s grin widened. “Excellent. Come. The first step is to choose your weapon.”

They walked to a newly set up rack of bladed weapons, all varying in size and shape. Piandao stood next to Zuko, letting the boy take in the display, before starting his explanation in that same dramatic voice. “Every sword is different. Not just by shape or function, but by the relationship the wielder has with it. To become a true master of the blade, you must become one with it. It is not separate from you. It is an extension of your soul.”

Zuko stared at the display, feeling a little overwhelmed. He’d never really thought about learning a weapon, figuring his firebending would be all he’d ever need. It was the most powerful weapon he could ever wield, right?

Piandao continued. “That is why it is so important to choose a weapon that calls to you. It may take some trial and error before you find your sword, but once you do, you’ll know.” He unsheathed his own sword, holding it out before them. “Take my jian. It is straightforward, practical, and simple in its design. It suits me, and I know it well.” He sheathed it again and smiled down at the prince. “Take a look. See if any call to you.”

Zuko gave him a doubtful look, but went along with it. The swords were cool and all, but he didn’t really want to learn how to master one. It would just take time away from firebending. Still, he peered at each sword, wondering what Piandao meant by one would ‘call to him’.

He figured that out when one blade in particular caught his eye. Zuko stared at it in its gently curved sheath, taking in every detail. It seemed different than the rest. Thicker, maybe? He pointed at it, “What’s that one?”

Piandao nodded, still smiling. “Ah, the dual broadswords. A simple, and rather misleading name, for a not so simple weapon.”

He took the weapon in question and pulled the blade from the scabbard. Zuko watched with wide eyes as the sword seemed to split in two, Piandao wielding a half in each hand.

Piandao slowly moved the blades around himself, explaining, “The name implies that these are two separate weapons, but in reality, they are one sword split in half, and a swordsman must treat them as such. They do not act independently. Every movement of one blade affects the movement of the other, both flowing in harmonious form.”

Zuko watched, listening closely. It didn’t quite make sense to him, since Piandao was obviously holding two swords, but he could grasp the basic concept. He had to use them together.

Piandao smiled at the boy and held the handles of the blades out to him. “Here. See how they feel.”

Zuko gulped, remembering the last time he’d been handed a sword on the practice field, but took the blades anyway. His fingers tightened around the cord-wrapped handles; they were heavier than they looked, but not too heavy. The blades themselves were graceful, their curve accentuated outside of the sheath. “I… I really like them,” Zuko murmured.

Piandao gave him another grin. “Excellent. We’ll begin immediately then.” He handed the sheath back to Zuko, who clumsily put the swords back in. “We’ll start with practice swords of course, just to get the basics down. But don’t worry, we’ll get the real thing soon.”

Zuko nodded, feeling strangely excited. He ran his hand over the leather sheath, not wanting to set it down yet.

Iroh gave them both a smile, folding his hands in the sleeves of his red robes. He hadn’t worn his mourning clothes since the fight with Masaru. “I’ll view from the sidelines. Let me know if I can help.” He patted his nephew’s shoulder and then moved out of the way.

Zuko nodded to him and then looked back at Piandao as the man held out two bamboo practice swords. The prince finally set the dual blades back on the rack, and then took the practice swords, ready to learn.

***

“Excellent work, Prince Zuko.”

Zuko was sweaty, his muscles were sore--and he was so happy. He bowed to Piandao, unable to help the big grin the spread over his face. Now _that_ had been a training session. He’d learned so much, and had actually felt himself get better. He didn’t even care at that point that he hadn’t used any fire. It felt good to handle a solid, physical weapon.

The master bowed back and then walked Zuko back over to the rack of weapons. “I can tell you’re going to make a great swordsman someday. Now, my regiment is to practice for three days in a row, and then stretch and recuperate for one. Does that sound acceptable?”

Zuko beamed up at him. “That sounds great,” he replied emphatically, relieved that Piandao believed in days off.

“Good.” The swordmaster put away the practice weapons, and then took the dual blades again. He smiled and offered them to Zuko. “Here. Keep them with you. This is your weapon now.”

Zuko blinked, slowly taking the scabbard from Piandao. “I can keep these? Aren’t they yours?”

Piandao smiled. “Consider it a birthday present.”

Zuko was stunned and honored. He had to stop himself from childishly hugging the blades to his chest, and instead slung the strap over his shoulders so the blades rested on his back. He then bowed low to Piandao. “Thank you very much,” he said, not sure how else to convey the amount of gratitude he felt.

“Of course, Prince Zuko. I’ll see you here tomorrow, first thing.”

***

The hall was dim even with the glow of fire surrounding the edges of the room. Distinguished men of the military all sat at a long, low table that was laden with food and drink. The air of the hall was jovial, if subdued. All gathered were having a good time, except for the person who was the reason for the party in the first place.

Zuko sat at the head of the table, at his father’s right side. He was dressed in his best clothes, even though he didn’t want to be. He had been served his favorite food, even though he wasn’t hungry. He’d also been given a toast at the beginning of the meal, by the Fire Lord no less, but even that had left a dull ache in his chest.

_To my winter son: let us hope the warmth of spring brings out your fire._

It had been weeks since they’d even seen each other. Zuko had hoped maybe they could speak a little during dinner. He wanted to tell Father about the dual blades, and how he felt he could do quite well with them, but Ozai had been as cold and silent as ever to him. The toast had only hammered in how inadequate Zuko still was.

Zuko let a servant take his barely touched plate, just wanting the day to be over already.

At a signal from Ozai, more servants rushed in and whooshed the platters of food away, leaving the long table empty but for the guests’ wine glasses. The Fire Lord raised a hand and the hall immediately went silent. Zuko frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. Great. The entertainment portion. Couldn’t he just go back to his room already? Azula hadn’t had to come.

Where was Azula anyway? He knew women weren’t usually at a prince’s birthday dinner, but he’d expected his sister to be allowed at least.

“And now, I’d like to present to you all the entertainment for the evening,” Ozai announced, his rough, low voice ringing through the hall. “My daughter, and your princess! Azula!”

Zuko’s eyes widened and he shot a glance at his father before quickly looking back out as the doors to the hall opened. Through them, two people came in first. Zuko instantly recognized Mai and Ty Lee. Both were wearing flashier clothes than he’d ever seen on them. Ty Lee had on a flowing pink and white outfit, with sleeves long like an evening gown, but the belted shirt and pants of an acrobat. She tumbled into the hall, popping back up and bowing to the assembly. Right behind the girl, Mai wore a long red and black kimono. She walked in with the poise and loftiness of a queen, as she simply strode in and bowed as well.

Once they were in place, a crest of blue flame billowed into the room before Azula herself ran in. The girl launched herself into the air, flipping, flame following her in a graceful arc, and then landed lightly on the empty table.

Ty Lee and Mei followed their friend, and then the trio began a perfectly choreographed fight. They flowed around each other, punching and dipping, kicking and dodging, dancing through the blue fire that Azula had always been able to produce.

Zuko gaped at the display, watching as his sister and her friends put on one of the most impressive and athletic displays of firebending and combat he’d ever seen. The audience gasped and cheered, watching with rapt attention. Zuko blinked, and then slowly glanced at his father.

Ozai was watching just as intently, his expression leaking pride and admiration. Zuko could see it there in his amber eyes--Azula was his prodigy. Ozai would probably give anything for Azula to be his first born, instead of his pathetic excuse for a son.

Jealousy crept into Zuko’s heart like poison. He hated this. He hated how good Azula was. How much better than him she was. And he hated how, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t please his father. He couldn’t be the son Ozai wanted. Would he ever be?

The prince stood from his cushion, unable to watch anymore. He didn’t bow to his father, he didn’t address the assembly, he just left, going out the back servant door.

Servants quickly got out of the boy’s way, whispering in his wake. He knew he’d been rude, but it was his birthday, dammit. He could do what he wanted. And the last thing he wanted was to watch Azula be a better heir than he’d ever be.

He headed toward his room at first, ready to just crawl under the covers and never come out, but something drew him to a different hall. Zuko didn’t even realize he was going a different direction until he found himself in the Hall of Lords. He gazed down the hallway, looking at his predecessors. The royal line. His blood. Fire Lords on one side, their spouses on the other. Ozai’s had been put up days after his ascension. A rush order, since Iroh’s had been ordered originally.

Zuko slowly walked down the hall until he reached the end. He glanced at Ozai’s likeness, and then turned to face Ursa’s. He stared up at the tapestry, his heart pounding. Studying her face, she looked… sad. Had she always looked sad? He’d never noticed. She’d always seemed so happy around him.

Zuko stared at the tapestry for a long time, longer than he meant to, until--

“ _Zuko._ ”

The boy gasped and jumped, spinning around to see none other than the Fire Lord standing behind him. He backed a couple steps away, immediately realizing that his father was angry. Fear, sharp and cold as a knife, dug into his guts as he stared up at the man.

The Fire Lord glared down at his son, his big, billowing dress robes making him look even taller than he was. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Zuko gulped, instantly regretting his sudden departure from the great hall. “Father, I--”

“I asked you a _question_ , Prince Zuko.”

“I didn’t feel well--”

_SMACK._

Zuko stumbled to the side, biting back the tears that sprang up as his cheek stung. He cowered away from the Fire Lord, barely able to lift his head to look at him. Ozai seemed to tower over him, backed by his own fiery, intimidating visage. The tapestry couldn’t quite capture his fury though, just as it could not quite capture the heat of a flame. Silk thread could never be harsh or cruel enough.

“I’m sorry, father,” Zuko croaked.

The Fire Lord scoffed, his fury quickly fading back into indifference. He straightened his robes, upper lip curling. “Twelve years and still a child. I should have expected as much.” He turned slightly, already losing interest. “Go to your room then, _boy_. You can come out when decide to be a man.”

Ozai’s robes whooshed as he strode back down the hallway. Zuko’s mouth worked but no sound came out. He wanted to call out to him. To plead for him to come back. To hit him or yell at him again, he didn’t care. He’d take it at this point. Weeks of not speaking, and these were the words Ozai said to him?

The Fire Lord disappeared around the far corner, and Zuko cuffed his hands against his head. “Stupid, stupid!” he hissed, trying to keep the tears at bay. He couldn’t be childish. He couldn’t be weak.

He turned and took off toward his room, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. Ozai was right. He had to be a man. He couldn’t keep messing up like this. Only children behaved this way. How would he ever be the son Ozai wanted if he kept doing things like that?

He made it to his room, emotions still high, to see that the door was already open and the candles were lit. Zuko blinked, and then carefully stepped in.

Iroh waited for him. The old man was looking around the room, calm and put together as always. He smiled when Zuko came in, though, Zuko noticed there was a hint of nervousness about him. Still, he greeted his nephew warmly. “Ah, Zuko! Glad you’re back. May I speak with you for a bit?”

Zuko stared at him, confused as to why he’d come there, but followed the old man farther into the room anyway. “Um, sure, Uncle,” he said awkwardly. He was still so upset, but he wouldn’t mention anything to Iroh. He would complain. Only children complained.

Iroh nodded, “Thank you. Here, let’s sit down.”

Zuko did as instructed, sitting down on the bed, and Iroh followed suit. The old man sat with a sigh, smiling and nodding. “It makes me happy to see that seemed to get along with Master Piandao, Zuko.”

The boy nodded, pulling his legs up to sit crosslegged on the bed. “He seems ok,” he offered.

Iroh smiled warmly. “Piandao is an old friend. I trust him completely to teach you fairly and kindly, nephew.”

Zuko glanced down at his lap, knowing Iroh was referring back to Masaru. “Ok,” he mumbled, picking at his nails.

“Do you feel comfortable with him, Zuko?” Iroh asked gently.

Zuko took a breath, nodding. “I think he’ll be a good teacher. I’m still not exactly sure how swords relate to firebending though.”

Iroh patted his back. “All in time, nephew.” Iroh paused, glancing away, that nervous look coming back to his features. “I’m going to be taking a trip Zuko. I’ll be leaving in a few days.”

Zuko looked to him, blinking. “Oh. Where are you going?”

Iroh sighed, and then shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. But something is calling me, and I cannot ignore it.”

Zuko nodded slowly, swallowing a lump in his throat. “When will you be back?”

Iroh met the boy’s gaze, and answered gently, “It may be some time. Months. I don’t think more than a year though.”

Zuko stared at him, his chest tightening. Iroh was leaving? For as long as a year? Why… why did that make him so sad suddenly? So lonely?

The boy quickly looked away, turning a little away from his uncle. “Well… have a good trip.”

Iroh was quiet for a moment, and Zuko resisted the urge to look back at him, picking at his nails again. If Iroh was going to leave, Zuko wanted him to just leave and get it over with. He didn’t care. Uncle could do what he wanted. He didn’t have to do this. To warn Zuko. He could just leave.

“I’ll write you, Zuko,” Iroh said quietly.

“Ok,” Zuko replied hotly. He gulped. “You can go now.”

He could feel that he’d hurt his uncle’s feelings, but he didn’t care at that point. Iroh stood and softly padded out of the room, and Zuko didn’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many people know, but Piandao actually did canonically teach Zuko the dual blades! Neat, right?
> 
> I'm going to try to update this regularly again. I still like the story, and I've got ideas for how to proceed. Still, I think there's only about 3 chapters left in it. But not to fear! I have other ideas for other Zuko fanfics after this one is done. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Lesson Four: Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko finds his solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys. This is where all those warnings up there come into play. I'm not going to put a chapter warning because I would just be copying the content warnings above. 
> 
> Again. ALL of the tags and warnings.
> 
> All. 
> 
> *hides*

Zuko didn’t wish Iroh goodbye the day he left. He didn’t even watch him go. He was out in the practice field, staying after his lesson to practice with his swords.

In the months that followed, Zuko spent increasingly more time there under the careful tutelage of Piandao, and also on his own. He quickly moved on from practice swords to the real thing, and wouldn’t stop until his arms were sore and throbbing after each session. Trim muscles gradually appeared as puberty hit the boy, his shoulders broadening, chest deepening. His voice dropped practically overnight, so quickly that Zuko thought he was sick at first until Piandao had to explain to him that it was just a natural thing.

Piandao explained a lot of things to Zuko while they trained. Things Zuko had never really been told before.

“A man is steadfast,” he told him about three weeks into his training. “He makes a decision, and sticks to it.” Their swords scraped together as they sparred, Piandao always delivering his wisdom in the heat of battle. “Do not confuse this, however, with pigheadedness. Be decisive, but you must also know to change course if you must.”

Zuko ground his teeth. “So should I stick by my decisions or change them?”

One curved blade went flying from his off-hand. Piandao smiled. “The two are not mutually exclusive. A man knows when he must push ahead, and when he should be swayed.”

Zuko frowned, but instead of saying anything, he just retrieved his sword.

It wasn’t only his words that left an impression on Zuko; it was Piandao himself too. The way he moved. The smoothness of his dark skin. His energy. Multiple times, Zuko caught himself staring, his swords held down at his sides, just watching his teacher.

He didn’t really understand why, but didn’t put much thought into those strange feelings that coupled with the image of the swordmaster. It could all just be lumped in with the other new and worrying feelings that boiled inside of him. A scalding pressure inside him. An itch in his mind. A need for something. Something he couldn’t name. Or, something he was too afraid to name.

 

***

 

Three months later, Zuko’s skill with his dual blades had skyrocketed. Spring had arrived, and it awoke in the prince a feverish need to learn more. 

It was a warm, clear day when he and Piandao danced across the field, exchanging blow after blow. Zuko’s heart raced as he felt his muscles jump to do exactly what he wanted them to, his control with the cold steel greater than any control he’d ever had with fire. He’d even found that using the swords curbed that steadily growing pressure inside of him.

“Good, Zuko. Good!” Piandao encouraged as they flowed through pose after pose, Zuko giving it all he was worth. Still, Zuko couldn’t get close to beating Piandao, even with his two swords again the one. Eventually, Piandao took charge and Zuko froze when there was suddenly a blade at his throat. He huffed a breath and backed away, bowing to his teacher.

Piandao bowed back, smiling, but his grin quickly faded. He took a breath, sheathing his sword before saying in his clear voice, “Zuko, you know the basics, and you are well on your way past the intermediate stage of sword mastery. From here, there isn’t much left for me to do as your teacher. You must continue to practice on your own. Experiment. Grow. Develop your own style.”

Zuko had sheathed his swords over his shoulder as well, but stared as Piandao spoke. He knew that tone. All the pressure that the practice had pushed down came right back up, scraping against the inside of his skin. “You’re leaving,” he stated before he could stop himself.

Piandao met his gaze, and almost seemed to flinch. His dark brows turned up a bit as he continued a little quieter. “A man’s path is his own, and this is where ours split. I will always be your teacher, Prince Zuko. But now, you must continue on your own.”

Zuko’s mouth went dry and it felt as if a film dropped over his eyes. He quickly looked away, jaw tight, a million responses whirling through his mind. _You’re leaving too. Leaving like everyone else. Like Uncle. Like Mother. Is it me? Am I not a good enough student? Why do I always end up alone--_ “Where are you going?” he asked, a little too loudly.

Piandao considered the boy’s reaction before he answered truthfully. “Your uncle has invited me to take part in a portion of his travels. It is an opportunity I cannot let pass.”

Heat rushed to Zuko’s fists. He grit his teeth. “And when will I get to go on these grand adventures?” he demanded. “Why am I always stuck here?!”

Piandao took a slow breath before he moved close to the boy. He placed a gentle hand on Zuko’s shoulder, causing the prince to look up and meet his gaze. His fire calmed somewhat as he stared up into those dark, sympathetic eyes. “You have a destiny, Zuko. And I think it will lead you far and wide someday. But you are not yet ready. Now is the time to prepare, not to bemoan your current situation.”

Zuko blinked up at him, acutely aware of the hand on his shoulder even as he tried to pay attention to Piandao. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

“Don’t know what?”

“My destiny. You say it like it’s a given, but… but what if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t fulfill it?”

Piandao smiled gently before crouching down in front of the Prince, looking up at him. “The thing about destinies, Prince Zuko, is that they have a funny way of fulfilling themselves, even if we feel we are not ready.” He smiled as the boy stared back into his dark eyes, Zuko’s heart thumping harder. “Your destiny will find you when the time is right. You can count on that.”

 

***

 

“Are you going to dance at my birthday party, Zuzu?" 

Zuko’s gaze shot up from the scroll he’d been studying. A firebending scroll, with plenty of new moves for him to try. It had only been a week since Piandao’s departure, and Zuko had been desperately combing through the palace library, trying to find anything he could use to distract himself from the empty pit in his stomach.

He gave his sister a flat look, and gave a blunt, “No,” before going back to his studying.

Azula pursed her lips, strolling into the library. “Zuzu, such a good little student now,” she purred.

“How many times will I tell you not to call me that?” he said through clenched teeth.

“At least once more, Zuzu~” Her voice was like honey as she leaned over his shoulder and peered at the scroll.

Zuko quickly rolled it up and shot Azula an annoyed look. “Go away, Azula. I’m busy.”

The girl giggled. “So grumpy all the time.” She slid onto the desk, leaning back on a manicured hand. “Maybe that’s why no one wants to stick around you.”

Heat crashed through Zuko’s lungs and he snarled, “You don’t know anything!”

The princess raised her hands. “Touchy, touchy. Fine, whatever. Don’t talk to me.”

Zuko blinked, watching Azula perch there on the table and inspect her nails. Was she… trying to actually connect with him for once? In her own weird, mean way? He glanced down at the table, playing with the bent corner of the scroll. “Have you… seen dad lately?” he mumbled.

“He’s very busy,” she answered immediately. Defensively. “He is Fire Lord, after all. He needs to focus on running our country.”

Zuko’s mouth pressed into a line. “So you haven’t.”

Azula’s lip curled and she shot him a glare. “He’ll be there, at my birthday. He wouldn’t miss it.” She grinned again, a cruel spark in her eye. “Surprised he even showed up to yours. Though, you shouldn’t count on it next year after what you did.”

Zuko matched her glare, but couldn’t hold it. His face burned with humiliation at the memory. Yet another to add to his list of screw-ups. He turned away, grabbing the scroll and stomping toward the exit. “I’m not going to perform at your birthday. Find someone else,” he barked over his shoulder before leaving the library in a huff.

 

***

 

Fireworks erupted over the courtyard of the palace, casting the entire area in reds and golds. Set in spring, Azula’s birthday celebration had always been outside. Had always been extravagant. Red flowers covered every corner. Decorations of red and blue dragons hung from every building edge. There was feasting. Fireworks. Firebending demonstrations. All for the Fire Princess. 

And, like she’d predicted, Ozai was there for the whole thing.

Zuko had managed to sneak out early again, no one noticing this time. This day wasn’t about him, and while he hated seeing how adoringly Father looked at Azula, he didn’t mind the shift in focus.

He walked slowly along a side garden, the sounds of celebration and merriment drifting from the central courtyard sending flashes of sharp, tingling heat over his skin. He didn’t know how to let it out anymore. Practicing with his dual blades had helped for a while, and he’d even started combining his firebending with his swordplay. Still though, he felt it. Stronger every day.

He paused near a small gazebo and looked down at his palms. He could practically see the fire under his skin. Pushing. Burning. It almost made him sick, trying to push back the pressure. What was it? Why wouldn’t it go away?

“Shouldn’t you be at the celebration, boy?”

Zuko gasped and spun around, a cold stone dropping through the heat that filled him as he laid eyes on the sinewy, intimidating form of Sensei Masaru.

The older man stood not far away (how had he missed his approach?!). Masaru leered at the boy, his shoulders slumped crookedly, a large, ceramic bottle held in one hand weighing down one side of his body. The moonlight glared off his ropy muscles, his sleeveless shirt open and sagging, showing his chest and the top of his stomach. His lips were shiny, wetness glistening in the silver light.

“Well, don’t you have an answer?” Masaru growled.

Zuko just stared, any response frozen with stunned fear. Fear. There it was again. He was so afraid. He was so afraid of this man.

Masaru stumbled closer, and Zuko immediately retreated. The movement dislodged his voice and he snapped a quick, “Stay back!”

Masaru paused, blinking, and then a slow grin spread over his face. He started to laugh, the sound like a dog trying to vomit before he leaned his head back and drank heavily from the bottle. The gulps were loud in the quiet of the garden, his throat bobbing as he drank.

The bottle barely moved from Masaru’s lips when his fist shot out and sent a plume of fire at Zuko. The prince moved, his muscles jumping in memory. He dove against the side of the gazebo to dodge the fireball, and then retaliated, striking out with his fist and sending a thick stream of red fire back.

All was red for a moment until a hand parted the stream of flame and grabbed onto Zuko’s wrist. His fire cut off as soon as that iron hand laid on him-- _hard fingers, pressing, touching, pushing--_ and threw him against the wall of the gazebo.

“Learned a few new tricks, I see,” the rough voice called as Zuko scrambled away, breaking through a dense shrub. The foliage erupted into flames at his heels, and Zuko gave a shout of alarm, stumbling toward a small maintenance shack.

He grit his teeth and spun around to throw another blast of his own fire, wishing desperately that he’d brought his swords. “Uncle beat you!” he shouted with the flames. “Why are you even here!?”

A gout of fire barreled toward him, eating up his own flame. Zuko crossed his arms in front of him and turned his face away, redirecting as much as he could as heat surrounded him. The sheer force of the fire was so strong though that he fell back with a cry, stumbling right through the thin wooden door of the shack.  

Masaru followed in after him, sandals catching over bits of splintered wood. Zuko cried out as Masaru descended, grabbing him and smashing the boy’s face down against the rough wooden floor. He didn’t let up,slamming him down again… and again… and again.

Zuko panted and groaned, dizzy and disoriented. He tasted copper in his mouth, the world pulsing before his eyes.

He grunted when he felt Masaru’s hard body press down against his back, pinning him against the floorboards. The boy felt fear rise like bile, but growled out, “Uncle beat you.”

Hot breath puffed against his ear, “But you can’t.”

“He beat you!” Zuko snarled as he thrashed, feeling like he was trapped under a boulder. Where were the guards? Shouldn’t they have come running when they saw the fire?!

Masaru laughed softly. “You need to relax. Here, boy, try some of this.” Stubby fingers spread over his face before prying his mouth open. The bottle Masaru had been holding shoved into his mouth, spilling bitter liquid in. Zuko coughed and hacked as he reflexively swallowed, the stuff splashing onto the floor under his chin.

“St-STOP!” Zuko slurred, the fingers still in his mouth even as the bottle fell away.

Masaru shoved against him, pushing his dirty fingers farther in, hooking them around the inside of the prince’s cheek. “Don’t you wanna be a man, hm? I thought that’s what you wanted,” Masaru crooned.

“You shouldn’t even _be_ here! Who let you in!?” Zuko demanded, trying to mask his fear with indignation. He shook his head furiously, those thick fingers making him gag.

“Why, Fire Lord Ozai, of course,” Masaru answered, voice still soft as a breeze.

Zuko froze, golden eyes widening. He wouldn’t, would he? Father had made Masaru his teacher, had not stopped the touching, but… but he wouldn’t let him come back, would he? Wouldn’t let him this close, right? Not after what had happened with Iroh? “Y-you’re lying!” Zuko cried, voice breaking, his fear obvious.

Masaru was busy on top of him, his free arm moving and tugging at something. “You know I’m not,” he breathed, suddenly yanking Zuko’s pants down.

The boy yelped, flailing and thrashing harder. What was happening? _What was happening?_

“The Fire Lord understands what a boy like you needs,” the man continued.

Zuko’s breath was dragging into his lungs, his entire body trembling. “L-like me?”

Something warm and hard pressed up between his legs, and Zuko knew instantly that it was wrong. He didn’t understand why, but this, all of this, was so very wrong.

“Yessss,” Masaru hissed, his hot, smelly breath puffing against the side of Zuko’s face. “You deserve this. It wouldn’t happen if you didn’t deserve it.”

Zuko’s eyes stung, his cheek hurting from where Masaru’s fingers pulled it back, drool stringing from his lips. “No…”

Masaru grunted as he readjusted, his weight pressing down hard on Zuko’s shoulders, that same warm, hard thing pressing somewhere else.

“NO--mm!” Masaru’s hand slapped over his mouth, silencing any more sounds from him.

“Shhh…” His weight shifted, pushing, piercing. “You will learn respect."

Pain split through Zuko, setting every nerve on fire. He screamed into Masaru’s sweaty palm, all fight leaving him, his eyes instantly fogging. He didn’t know what was happening anymore. It hurt. Everything hurt. How did it hurt so much?

But he deserved it. The Fire Lord knew it, which was why he’d invited Masaru back. Father knew what he needed. This… this was what he deserved.

 

***

 

Zuko didn’t want to think about where he was bleeding.

He didn’t want to think about how his entire body hurt. How he hurt inside.

The prince sat in his bedroom. It was late. Or maybe early. The moon was starting her descent back toward the western horizon, but as late as it was Zuko knew he wouldn’t find sleep. He was too exhausted to sleep.

_You deserve this._

Practice wouldn’t be enough anymore. He knew that now. The swords had been a good distraction, but they had run out of relief.

_You will learn respect._

He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his stomach, alternating between bouts of halting, broken cries and staring off into nothing.

He had to find a release. He had to let it out. This pressure was going to kill him.

The answer he’d been trying to avoid for months whispered in his ear, sending a chill down his spine. It was the only way. It had to be the way.

Zuko stood abruptly, ignoring the shooting pain through his legs and hips, and quickly stripped. His hands shook violently as he removed his stained, bloody pants, staring at the bruises that speckled his pale skin.

This had to work. It had to.

Naked, he looked down at his bedside table, his eyes focusing on the pearl-handled dagger Iroh had gotten him from Ba Sing Se.

He slowly reached for it, curling slim fingers around the smooth handle. The sheath silently slipped off, once again revealing the inscription: _Never give up without a fight._

His eyes stung. He wasn’t giving up. This wasn’t giving up. He needed this. This would make things better.

The blade drifted toward his lower hip, but just as the edge brushed his skin, Zuko’s hand trembled. The boy grit his teeth, a sob trying to worm its way up his throat. No. That wouldn’t do. This had to be perfect. It had to be right, or it wouldn’t work. He was sure of it.

Zuko closed his eyes and took a slow breath, breathing in through his throbbing nose, and then out his bloodied mouth. Then another. His hand steadied as his heartrate lowered.

Golden eyes opened again and he looked down, expression completely calm, hand steady as stone.

The dagger neared, it kissed his skin, and then parted that pale, bruised flesh with ease.

It didn’t hurt at first, and Zuko just watched as blood gathered at the edges of the blade, entranced, strangely separate. Was… was this real? Was this his leg? His blood?

Seconds later, the pain flowed in like water, but with it came the most intense relief Zuko had ever felt. He gave a soft moan, his breathing growing heavy as he struggled to maintain his calm. He forced another slow breath, and then slowly continued.

Lifting the dagger, he stared down at the red line, about four inches long, cut horizontally over his hip. His heart fluttered, the pain nothing compared to the ease he felt in his chest. The pressure leaked from him like a deflating balloon, his lungs drawing a full breath for the first time in months, it seemed.

Zuko lovingly ran his thumb over the line. It worked. It worked! And if one line had done that much…

Bright eyes drifted to the other hip. Vertigo struck, nearly sending him stumbling into the bedside table. He steadied his feet wider, taking a shuddering breath. He wasn’t done. He had to make it even.

He switched hands, easily using his offhand now, and quickly lined up the blade. He looked carefully back and forth, needing to make it perfect.

When it was lined up exactly, Zuko pressed down again. The barest pressure. Nothing really. Was his skin so fragile? He didn’t care about the answer as another wave of relief washed through him.

When the second line was drawn, Zuko tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His fingers buzzed and his head felt light. Why had he waited so long? This was what he’d needed. He didn’t know why. It should hurt more, shouldn’t it? It should feel bad. But the ease in his chest and mind was like nothing else. Like his body didn’t matter. He was not his body, he just inhabited it. He was separate. Floating. Distant.

  
Zuko slowly looked back down, admiring the lines, the bright red over stark skin. He licked his lips, imagining more. A few more wouldn’t hurt, right?


End file.
